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Full text of "The Ontario readers. The high school reader"

HIGH SCHOOL 

READER. 

AUTHORIZED FOR USE IN THE PUBLIC AND HIGH SCHOOLS 
AND COLLEGIATE IN.qTITU'E.q OF ONTARIO BY THE 
DEPARTMENT OF EDUCATION. 

ROSE PUBLISHING COMPANY. 
x886. 



PREFACE. 

THE selections in the HIGH SCHOOL READER have been chosen with the be- 
lief that to pupils of such advancement as is required for entrance into High 
Schools and Collegiate Institutes, oral reading should be taught from the best 
literature, inasmuch as it not only affords a wide range of thought and senti- 
ment. but it also demands for its appropriate vocal interpretation such powers 
of sympathy and appreciation as are developed only by culture ; and it is to im- 
part culture that these institutions of higher learning have been established. 
Experience has shown that it is from their ordinary reading books that pupils 
obtain their chief practical acquaintance with literature, and the selections here 
presented have been made with this in remembrance. They have been taken 
from the writings of authors of acknowledged representative character ; and they 
have been arranged for the most part chronologically, so that pupils may un- 
consciously obtain some little insight into the history of the development of the 
literary art. They have also been so chosen as to convey a somewhat fair idea 
of the relative value and productivity of authorship in the three great English- 
speaking communities of the world--the mother countries, our neighbours' 
country, and our own. 
While a limited space, if nothing else. prevents the collection here made from 
being a complete anthology, yet it does pretend to represent the authors selected 
in characteristic moods, and (in so far as is possible in a school book. and a 
reading text-book) to present a sommhat fair perspective of the world of author- 
shit x It may be said that, if this be so, some names are conspicuously absent : 
McGee, Canada's poet-orator ; Parkman, who has given to our cofmtry a place 
in the portraiture of nations ; William Morris, the chief of the modern school of 
romanticism ; Tyndall, ssho of the literature of science has made ,an art ; Lamb, 
daintiest of humorists; Collins. " whose range of flight." as Sdnburne says, 
"was the highest of his generation." Either from lack of space, or from some 
inherent unsuitableness in such selections as might otherxsise have been made. 
it as found impossible.to represent these names worthily : but as they are all 
more or less adequately represented in the Four/It Reader, the teacher ss ho may 
wish to correct the perspective here presented may refer his pupils to the pieces 
from these authors there given. It may be added, too, that the body of recent 
literature is so enormous, that no adequate representation of it {at any rate as 
regards quantity) is possible within the limits of one book. 
The selections in poetry, with but three necessary exceptions, are complete 
wholes, and represent, as fairly as single pieces can, the respective merits and 
styles of their authors. The selections in prose cannot, of course, lay claim to 
this excellence ; but they are all complete in themselves, or have been made so 
by short introductions ; and it is hoped that they too are not unfairly represen- 
tative of their authors. In many cases they are of somme-hat unusual length ; 
by this, however, they gain in interest and in representative character. 



degrees usually spoken of are very light, light, moderate, strong, and veo' strong. 
As with all other modes, these degrees will vary from word to word. and from 
sentence to sentence ; and great judgment and taste must be exercised in em- 
ploying them, so that they appropriately represent the intensity of the thought 
and feeling of which they are to be the expression. 
5Ioderat, lorce is the natural expression of tranquillity, and, therefore, of all 
unimpassioned diction. As the diction becomes pervaded by the more positive 
emotions, the tones of the voice naturally become stronger. Certainty requires 
strong force with pure quality. So all the passions, the lighter as well as the 
more vehement, require the degree of force to be heightened : cheerfulness, joy, 
ecstacy, requiring force moderately strong ; and anger, hate, terror, revenge, 
being suitably rendered by very strong force. Again, doubt, uncertainty, secrecy. 
as well as the gentler and more plaintive emotions, are most suitably repre- 
sented by the lighter shades of force. 
.%s the voice assumes the intenser modes of force, the vocal organs become 
more and more compressed, and utterance is more and more labored ; the breath 
forced out cannot all be vocalized ; the voice becomes less and less pure. and 
manifests itself in the aspirate and guttural qualities, ttence, stronffly suttres;ed 
utterance in impure vocality, rather titan mere loudness in ur. vocality, is the 
attrotriate ex.#ression for all the intenser tassions. 
IlL STRESS. lStress is force considered with respect of the form of its applica- 
tion to the concrete. Since the equable concrete is the natural colorless ex- 
pression of unimpassioned thought, force applied to any part of it changes its 
character, and gives it a more or less significant emphasis. The three most 
usual forms of stress are the radical, the median, and theflnal; these may be 
effected in any of the degrees of force. Comtound stress and thorouffl stress 
admit of but little variation. 
ladieal SgreB8, to some extent an essential, but not an expressiveelement in 
the equable concrete, is, in a somewhat stronger form, an element in all utter- 
ance that is intended to be vivid and energetic, emphasizing these characteristics 
by its own incisive clearness. The more animated and energetic the diction the 
clearer and more determined should be the opening of the concrete, that is, the 
more distinct and forcible should be its radical stress ; while in graver language 
the radical stress is less pronounced. In its emphatic degree it ought at no 
time to be allowed to become a current mode, imparting its peculiar irlcisive 
character to every syllable; though, for especial emphasis, it may be appro- 
priately used in thi" way in the utterance of the several words of a phrase. 
1 inul 13t;ress differs from radical stress principally in this, that while it equal- 
ly indicates energy and positiveness, it does so as in accordance with predeter- 
mination and reflection. Radical stress tic.ores, as it were, an involuntar.v 
state of energy ; final stress, the energy or fixedness of resolz,e. Hence, final 
stress is appropriate to the expression of resolution, of obstinacy, of earnest 
conviction, of passionate resolve. It emphasizes the characteristics of ide 
intervals, giving to rising intonations a more decidedly interrogatory character, 
and making falling intonations more vehemently and passionately positive. 



THE ".IlERCHAXT OF VISXVCE." 

43 

You may as well do anything most hard, 
As seek to soften that--than which what's harder ?- 
His Jewish heart : therefore, I do beseech you, 
Make no more offers, use no further means, 
But, with all brief and plain convenient3, , 
I Jet me have judgment, and the Jew his will. 
tassanio. For thy three thousand ducats here is six. 
Shylock. If every ducat in six thousand ducats 
Were in six parts, and every part a ducat, 
I would not draw them ; I would have my bond. 
Duke. How shalt thou hope for mercy, rend'ring none ? 
Shylock. What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong ? 
You" have among you many a purchas'd slave, 
Which, like you asses, and your dogs, and mules, 
You use in abject and in slavish parts, 
Because you bought them : shall I say to you, 
Let them be free, marry them to your heirs ? 
Why sweat they under burdens ? let their beds 
Be made as soft as yours, and let their palates 
Be season'd with such viands ? You will answer, 
"The slaves are ours :" so do I answer you : 
The pound of flesh, which I demand of him, 
Is dearly bought ; 'tis mine, and I will have it : 
If you deny me, fie upon your law ! 
There is no force in the decrees of Venice. 
I stand for judgnnent : answer ; shall I have it ? 
Duke. Upon nay power I may dismiss this court, 
Unless Bellario, a learned doctor, 
Whom I have sent for to detenaaine this, 
Come here to-day. 
Solanio. My lord, here stays without 
A messenger with letters from the doctor, 
New come from Padua. 
Duke. Bring us the letters ; call the messenger. 
Bassanio. Good cheer, Antonio ! What, man, courage yet ! 



THE ".IIERCttANT OF I'ENICtL" 

Shyla,'k. Shall I not have barely my principal ? 
l,lrtia. Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture, 
To be so taken at thy peril, Jew. 
Skylark. Why, then the devil give him good of it ! 
Ill stay no longer question. 
]orlia. Taro" , Jew : 
The law hath yet another hold on you. 
It is enacted in the laws of Venice, 
If it be prov'd against an alien 
That b)" direct or indirect attempts 
He seek the life of any citizen, 
The party 'gainst the which he doth contrive 
Shall seize one half his goods ; the other half 
Comes to the privy coffer of the state ; 
And the offender's life lies in the mercy 
Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice. 
In which predicanaent, I say, thou stand'st ; 
For it appears, by manifest proceeding, 
That, indirectly, and directly too, 
Thou hast contriv'd against the very life 
Of the defendant ; and thou hast incurr'd 
The danger formerly by me rehears'd. 
Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the duke. 
Gratiano. Beg that thou mayst have leave to hang thyself: 
And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state, 
Thou hast not left the value of a cord ; 
Therefore, thou must be hang'd at the state's charge. 
Ittke. That thou shalt see the difference of our spirit, 
I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it : 
For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's ; 
The other half comes to the general state, 
Which humbleness may drive unto a fine. 
tartia. Ay, for the state ; not for Antonio. 
Shylak. Nay, take my life and all ; pardon not that : 
You take my house rben you do take the prop 



60 T]t HIGH .TCHOOL READER. 

of virtue are ccrtain, and our provisions for our natural 
support are certain ; or if we want meat till we die, then 
we die of that di.ease--and there are man): worse than 
to die with an atrophy or consumption, or unapt and 
coarser nourishment. ]3ut he that suffers a transporting 
passion concerning things within the power of others, i. 
free from sorrow and amazement no longer than his 
enemy shall give him leave ; and it is ten to one but he 
shall be smitten then and there where it shall most trouble 
him ; for so the adder teaches us where to strike, by her 
curious wad fearful defending of her head. The old 
Stoics, vhc,a you told them of a sad story, would still 
answer, " II'hat is that to me?" Yes, for the tyrant hath 
sentenced you also to prison. Well, what is that ? He 
will put a chain upon my leg ; but he ca,mot bind my 
soul. No; but he will kill you. Then I will die. If 
presently,, let me o, that I may presently be freer than 
himself: but if not till anon, or to-morrow, I will dine 
first, or sleep, or do what reason or nature calls for, as at 
other times. This, in Gentile philosophy, is the same 
with the discourse of .'St. Paul, " I have learned, in what- 
soever state I am, therewith to be content. I know both 
how to be abased, and I know how to abound: every 
here and in all thi,ags I am instructed, both to be full 
and to be hung 3- ; both to abound and suffer need." 
We are in the world like men playing at tables; the 
chance is not i,a our poxver, but to pla.v it is ; and whe,a 
it is fallen we must manage it as we can : and let nothing 
trouble us, but when we do a base action, or speak like 
a fool, or think xickedly,--these things God hath put 
into our powers ; but concerning those things which are 
wholly in the choice of another, the 5 - cannot fall under 
our deliberation, a,ad therefore neither are they fit for 



ANGLING. 65 
Piscator.--My honest scholar, I will do it ; for it is a 
debt due unto you by my promise. 
Look how it begins to rain !--and by the clouds, 
if I mistake not, we shall presently have a smoking 
shower, and therefore sit close: this sycamore-tree will 
shelter us; and I will tell you, as the), shall come into 
my mind, more observations of fly-fishing for a trout.. 
- And now, scholar, my direction for fly-fishing is 
ended with this shower, for it has done raining: and now 
look about you, and see how pleasantly that meadow 
looks ; nay, and the earth smells as sweetly too. Come, 
let me tell you what holy Mr. Herbert says of such days 
and flowers as these ; and then we will thank God that 
we enjoy them, and walk to the river and sit down 
:luietly, and try to catch the other brace of trouts. 
Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, 
The bridal of the earth and sky : 
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night ; 
For thou must die. 

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, 
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, 
Thy root is ever in its grave ; 
And thou must die. 

Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses, 
A box where sweets compacted lie ; 
Thy music shows ye have your closes : 
And all must die. 

Only a sweet and virtuous soul, 
lake season'd timber, never gives ; 
But, though the whole world turn to coal, 
Then chicfly lives. 



o 

But he, her fears to cease, 
Sent down the meek-ey'd Peace : 
She, crown'd with olive green, came softly sliding 
Down through the turning sphere, 
His read)' harbinger, 
With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing; 
And, waving wide her myrtle wand, 
She strikes a universal peace through sea and land. 

4o 

No war, or battle's sound, 
Was heard the world around : 
The idle spear and shield were high u 1, hung 
The hookbd chariot stood, 
Unstain'd with hostile blood ; 
The trumpet spake not to the armbd throng ; 
And kings sat still with awful eye, 
As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by. 

o 

But peaceful was the night 
Wherein the Prince of I.ight 
His reign of peace upon the earth began : 
The winds, with wonder whist, 
Smoothly the waters kisS'd, 
"Whispering new joys to the mild Ocean, 
Who now hath quite forgot to rave, 
While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed save. 

o 

The stars, with deep amaze, 
Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze, 
]3endin8 one wa)- their preciou influence 



IOo 

Nature, that heard such sound 
Beneath the hollow round 
Of Cynthia's seat, the Airy region thrilling, 
Now was almost won 
To think her part was done, 
And that her reign had here its last fulfilling : 
She knew such harmony alone 
Could hold all Heaven and Earth in happier union. 

II. 

At last surrounds their sight 
A globe of circular light, 
That with long beams the shame-faced Night array'd : 
The hehn:d cherubim, 
And swordbd seraphim, 
Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd, 
Harping in loud and solemn choir, 
With unexpressive notes to Heaven's new-born Heir. 

Such music (as 'tis said) 
Before was never made, 
But when of old the Sons of Morning sung, 
While the Creator great 
His constellations set, 
And the well-balanced world on hinges hung, 
And cast the dark foundations deep, 
And bid the welt'ring waves their oozy channel keep. 

I3. 
Ring out, ye crystal spheres ! 
Once bless our human ears, 
(If ye have power to touch our senses so,) 



THE H}UIN. 75 

Nor is Osiris seen 
In Memphian grove or green, 
Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings ioud ; 
Nor can he be at rest 
Within his sacred chest ; 
Naught but profoundest Hell can be his shroud ; 
In vain, with timbreli'd anthems clark, 
The sable-stolid sorcerers bear"his worshipp'd ark. 

He feels from Juda's land 
The dreaded Infant's hand ; 
The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn ; 
Nor all the gods beside 
Longer dare abide, 
Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine : 
Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, 
Can in his swaddling bands control the damn:d crew. 
26. 
So, when the sun in bed, 
Curtain'd with cloudy red, 
Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, 
The flocking shadows pale 
Troop to the infernal jail, 
Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave ; 
And the yellow-skirted lays 
Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-lov'd maze. 

... 27 . 
But see ! the Virgin blest 
Hath laid her Babe to rest. 
Time is our tedious song should here have ending : 



till the next morning; till when, there vas some hope 
he might have been a prisoner; though his nearest 
friends, who knew his temper, received small comfort 
from that ilnagination. Thus fell that incomparable 
young man, in the four-and-thirtieth year of his age, 
having so much despatched the true business of life, 
that the oldest rarely attain to that immense knowledge, 
and the youngest enter not into the world with more 
innocency : whosoever leads such a life, needs be the less 
anxious upon how short warning it is taken from him. 

XI. VENI CREATOR SPIRITUS. 

JoHN DRYDEN.--1631-ITOO. 
CREATOR Spirit, by whose aid 
The world's foundations first were laid, 
Come, visit every pious mind ; 
Come, pour thy joys on humankind- 
From sin and sorrow set us free, 
And make thy temples worthy thee. 
O source of uncreated light, 
The Father's promis'd Paraclete ! 
Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire, 
Our hearts with heavenly love inspire ; 
Come, and thy sacred unction bring 
To sanctify us, while we sing. 
Plenteous of grace, descend from high, 
Rich in thy sevenfold energy ! 
Thou strength of his Almighty hand, 
Whose power does heaven and earth command ; 
Proceeding Spirit, our defenc% 
F 



XIII. REASON. 

DRYDEN. 
Fre RELIGIO LAICL 
I)l.t as the borrow'd beams of moon and stars 
To lonely, weary, wandering travellers, 
Is Reason to the soul ; and as on high 
Those rolling fires discover but. the sky, 
Not light us here ; so Reason's glimmering ray 
Was lent, not to assure our doubtful way, 
But guide us upward to a better day 
And as those nightly tapers disappear, 
When day's bright lord ascends our hemisphere ; 
So pale groxx's Reason at Religion's sight ; 
So dies, and to dissolves, in supernatural light. 

XIV. ON THE LOVE OF COUNTRY AS A PRINCIPLE 
OF ACTION. 

RICHARD STEELE.--'672-Z729. 
From THE TATLER, June xo, 171o. 
WHEN men look into their own bosoms, and consider 
the generous seeds which are there planted, that might, if 
rightly cultivated, ennoble their lives, and make their 
virtue venerable to futurity; how can they, without 
tears, reflect on the universal deg..Bcracy from that public 
spirit, which ought to be the first and principal motive 
of all their actions ? In the Grecian and Roman nations, 
they were wise enough to keep up this great incentive, 



$4 

THE HIGH SCHOOL 

and it was impossible to be in the fashion without being 
a patriot. .-kll gallantry had its first source from hence ; 
and to want a warmth for the public welfare, was a 
defect so scandalous, that he who was guilty of it had 
no prctence _ honor or manhood. What makes the 
depravity anong us, in this behalf, the more vexatious 
and irksome to reflect upon, is, that the contempt of life 
is carried as far amongst us, as it could bc in those 
memorable people; and we want only a proper appli- 
cation of the qualities which are frequent among us, to 
be as worthy as the}. There is hardly a man to be 
fund who will not fight upon any occasion, which he 
thinks may taint his own honor. Were this motive as 
strong in everything that regards the public, as'it is in 
this our private case, no man would pass his life away 
without having distinguished himself b} some gallant 
instance of his zeal towards it in the respective incidents 
,f his life and profession. But it is so far otherxvise, that 
there cannot at present be a more ridiculous animal, 
than one who seems to regard the good of others. He, 
in civil life, whose thoughts turn upon schemes which 
may be of general benefit, without further reflection, is 
called a projector; and the man whose mind seems 
intent upon glorious achievements, a knight-errant. The 
ridicule among us runs strong against laudable actions ; 
ha}-, in the ordinar}, course of things, and the common 
regards of life, negligence of the public is an epidemic 
vice. The brexver in his excise, the merchant in his 
customs, and, for aught we knov, the soldier in his 
muster-rolls, think never the worse of themselves for 
being guilt}" of their respective frauds toxvards the public. 
This evil is come to such a fantastical height, that he is 
a man of a public spirit, and heroicall}, aff',-ted to hi. 



86 THE HIGH SCHOOL REtDR. 

ever made, which did not turn upon this general sense, 
" That the love of their country was the first and most 
essential quality in an honest mind." Demosthenes, 
in a cause wherein his fame, reputation, and fortune, 
were embarked, puts his all upon this issue; " Let the 
Athenians," says he, " be benevolent to me, as they think 
I have been zealous for them." This great and discern- 
ing orator knew, there was nothing else in nature could 
bear him up against his adversaries, but this one quality 
of having shown himself willing or able to serve his 
country. This certainly is the test of merit ; and the first 
fi,undation for deserving good-will is, having it yourself. 
The adversary of this orator at that time was .-Eschines, 
a man of wily arts and skill in the world, who could, as 
occasion served, fall in with a national start of passion, 
or sullenness of humor, which a whole nation is some- 
times taken with as well as a private man ; and by that 
means divert them from their common sense, into an 
aversion for receiving anything in its true light. But 
when Demosthenes had awakened his audience with that 
one hint of judging by the general tenor of his life 
towards them, his services bore down his opponent before 
him, who fled to the covert of his mean arts, until some 
more favorable opportunity should offer against the 
superior merit of Demosthenes. 
It were to be wished, that love of their country were 
the first principle of action in men of business, even for 
their own sakes ; for when the world begins to examine 
into their conduct, the generality, who have no share in, 
or hopes of an)" part in power or riches, but what is the 
effect of their own labor or prosperity, will judge of them 
by no other method, than that of how profitable their 
administration has been to the whole. They who are 



88 THE HIGH SCHOOL REA DER. 

XV. THE GOLDEN SCALES. 

JoSEI'H ADDISON.--1672-I7I 9, 
Froln THE PECTATOR, August 2I, I712. 
I WAS lately entertaining myself with comparing 
}tomcr's balance, ill which Jupiter is represented as 
weighing the fates of ]lector an,l Achilles, with a pas- 
sage of Virgil, wherein that deity is introduced as 
weighing the fates of Turnus an,l ,Encas. I then 
con.si,lerc,l how the same way of thinking prevailed in 
the eastern parts of the worhl, as in those noble passages 
-f Scripture, where we are told, that the great king of 
Babylon, the day before his death, had been weighed 
in the balance, and been found wanting. In other 
places f the holy writings the Almighty is described 
as weighing the mountains in scales, making the weight 
for the winds, knowing the balancings of the clouds; 
and, in others, as weighing the actions of men, and 
laying their calamities together in a balance. Milton, as 
I have observed in a former paper, had an eye to several 
of these foregoing instances, in that beautiful description 
wherein he represents the archangel and the evil spirit 
as a, hlressing themselves" for the combat, but parted b- 
the balance which al_,pearcd in the heavens, and weighed 
the consequences of such a battle. 

The Eternal, to prevent such horrid fray, 
t[ung forth in Heaven his golden scales, ):et seen 
Betwixt Astrea and the Scorpion sign, 
Wherein all things created first he weigh'd, 
The pendulous round earth with balanced air 
In counterpoise ; no" ponder, all events, 



THE GOLIPEN SC.xILIz'S. 

13attles and reahns : iq these he puts two weights, 
The sequel each of parting and of fight : 
The latter quick up flew and kick'd the beam ; 
Which Gabriel spying, thus bespake the fiend : 
"Satan, I know thy strength, and thou know'st mine; 
Neither our own, but given ; what foil,,, then 
To boast what arms can do ! since thine no more 
Than Heaven permits ; nor mine, though doubled now 
To trample thee as mire : for proof look up, 
And read thy lot in yon celest,al sign, 
Where thou art Weigh'd, and shewn how light, how weak, 
If thou resist." The fiend look'd up and knew 
His mounted scale aloft ; nor more : but fled 
Murm'ring, and with hi,n fled the shades of night. 

9 

These several amusing thoughts having taken posses- 
sion of my mind some time bcforc I went to sleep, and 
mingling themselves with my odinary ideas, raised in 
m), imagination a very odd kind of vision. I was, 
methought, replaced in my study, and seated in my 
elbow-chair, where I had indulged the foregoing specu- 
lations, with my lamp burning by me, as usual. Whilst 
I was here meditating on several subjects of moralit}-, 
and considering the nature of many virtues and vices, as 
materials for those discourses with which I daily entertain 
the public; I saw, mcthought, a pair of golden scales 
hanging by a chain in the same metal over the table 
that stood before me; when, on a sudden, there were 
great heaps of weights thrown down on each sde of 
them. I found upon examining these weights, they 
showed the value of cverything that is in esteem among 
men. I made an essay of them, by putting the weight 
of wisdom in one scale, and that of riches m another, 
upon which the latter, to show its comparative lightness, 
immcdiately "flew up and kicked tb- beam." 



94 

THE HIGH .SC'HOOL IJIf_,IDLIJ. 

dinner. In the meantime, the good lady whispered her 
eldest daughter, and slipped a key into her hand. The 
girl returned instantly with a beer-glass half full of aqua 
nirabilis and syrup of gillyflowers. I took as much as 
I had a mind for ; but madam avowed I should drink it 
off--for she was sure it would do me good, after coming 
out of the cohl air--and I was forced to obey; which 
absolutely took away my stomach. When dinner came 
in, I had a mind to sit at a distance from the fire; but 
the), told me it was as much as my life was worth, and 
set me with my back just against it. Although my 
appetite was quite gone, I resolved to force down as 
much as I couhl ; and desired the leg of a pullet. " In- 
deed, lIr. Bickerstaff," says the lady, "you must eat a 
wing, to oblige me ;" and so put a couple upon my plate. 
I was persecuted at this rate during the whole meal. As 
often as I called for small-beer, the master tipped the 
wink, and the servant brought me a brimmer of October. 
Some time after dinner, I ordered my cousin's man, who 
came with me, to get ready the horses ; but it was resolved 
I should not stir that night ; and when I seemed pretty 
much bent upon going, the)- ordered the stable door to 
be locked; and the children hid my cloak and boots. 
The next question was, what I would have for supper. 
I said I never ate anything at night ; but was at last, in 
my own defence, obliged to name the first thing that 
came into my head. After three hours spent chiefly in 
apologies for my entertainment, insinuating to me, " that 
this was the worst time of the )'ear for provisions ; that 
they were at a great distance from any market; that 
the)- were afraid I should be starved; and that they 
knev they kept me to my loss," the lady went, and left 
me to her husband--for they took special care I shouhl 



9 6 THE HIGH SCHOOL .READER. 

XVII. FROM THE "ESSAY ON MAN." 

ALEXANDER I'OPE.--I688-I7,.[- 4. 
HEAVEN from all creatures hides the book of fate, 
All but the page prescrib'd, their present state ; 
From brutes what men, from men what spirits know 
Or who could suffer being here below ? 
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, 
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play ? 
i'leas'd to the last, he crops the flowery ftJod, 
And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood. 
O blindness to the fi|ture ! kindly given, 
That each may fill the circle markd by heaven ;  
Who .ees with equal eye, as (;od of all, 
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall, 
Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd, 
And now a bubble burst, and now a world. 
H,l,e humbly then ; with trembling pinions soar 
Wait the great teacher I eath ; and (;od adore. 
What future bliss he gives not thee to know," 
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. 
Hol,e springs eternal in the human breast : 
Man never is, but always to be, blest. 
The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home, 
Rests and expatiates in a life to come. 
Lo, the poor Indian !. whose untutor'd mind 
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind ; 
His soul proud science never taught to stray 
Far as the solar walk, or milky way ; 
Yet simple nature to his hope has given, 
Behind the cloud-tont hill, an humbler heaven ; 

'* If the Essay on .lIan were shivered into fragments, it would not lose its 
value ; for it is precisely its details which constitute its moral as well as literary 
bcauties,--A. V', WARD, tto[gt[ y |ARK PATTISON. 



THE "ESS2ff 

Some safer world in depth of woods embraced, 
Some happier island in the watery waste, 
Where slaves once more their native land behold, 
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. 
To be, contents his natural desire ; 
He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire ; 
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, 
His faithful dog shall bear him company. 

What if the foot, ordain'd the dust to tread, 
Or hand, to toil, aspir'd to be the head ? 
What if the head, the eye, or ear repin'd 
To serve mere engines to the ruling mind ? 
Just as absurd for any part to claim 
To be another, in this general frame ; 
Just as absurd to mourn the tasks or pains 
The great directing Mind of All ordains. 
All are but parts of one stupendous hole, 
Whose body Nature is, and God the soul ; 
That changed through all, and yet in all the same, 
 ;rear in the earth, as in the ethereal frame, 
War,-ns in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, 
(;lows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees ; 
I,ives through all life, extends through all extent, 
Spreads undivided, operates unspent ; 
Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, 
As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart ; 
As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns, 
As the rapt seraph that adores and burns : 
To him no high, no low, no great, no small ; 
He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. 

All nature is but art unknown to thee ; 
All chance, direction, which thou canst not see ; 
All discord, harmony not understood; 
All partial evil, universal good : 
G 

97 



FRO,1I THE "ESSA 

The hog, that ploughs not, nor obeys thy call, 
Lives on the labors of this lord of all. 
Know, Nature's children all divide her care ; 
The fur that warms a monarch warm'd a bear. 
While man exclaims, "See all things for nay use !" 
"See man for mine !" replies a pamper'd goose : 
And just as short of reason he must fall, 
Who thinks all made for one, not one for all. 

For forms of government let fools contest ; 
Whate'er is best administer'd is best : 
For modes of faith let graceless zealots fight ; 
His can't be wrong whose life is in the right. 
In faith and hope the world will disagree, 
But all mankind's concern is charity : 
All must be false that thwart this one great end, 
And all of God that bless mankind or mend. 

Honor and shame from no condition rise ; 
Act well your part, there all the honor lies. 
Fortune in men has some small difference made, 
One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade ; 
The cobbler apron'd, and the parson gown'd, 
The friar hooded, and the monarch crown'd. 
"What differ more (you cry) than crown and cowl ?'" 
I'll tell you, friend, a wise man and a fool. 
You'll find, if once the monarch acts the monk, 
Or, cobbler-like, the parson will be drunk, 
Worth makes the man, and want of it, the fellow ; 
The rest is all but leather or prunello. 

Go ! if your ancient but ignoble blood 
Has crept through scoundrels ever since the flood, 
Go ! and pretend your family is young, 
Nor own )'our fathers have been fools so long. 

99 



THE FIRST CRUSADE. 

o3 

employed in military enterprises, by which they spread 
their empire in a few years from the banks of the 
Ganges to the Straits of Gibraltar, that they had no 
leisure for theological controversy: and though the 
Alcoran, the original monument of their faith, seems 
to contain some ,iolcnt precepts, they were much less 
infected with the spirit of bigotry and persecution 
than the indolent and speculative Greeks, who were 
continually refining on the several articles of their re- 
ligious system. They gave little disturbance to those 
zealous pilgrims, xxho daily flocked to Jerusalem; and 
they allowed every man, after paying a moderate tribute, 
to visit the holy sepulchre, to perform his religious 
duties, and to return in peace. But the Turcomans or 
Turks, a tribe of Tartars, who had embraced Mahomet- 
anism, having wrested Syria from the Saraccns, and 
having, in the )-ear IO6 5, made themselves masters of 
Jerusalem, rendered the pilgrimage much more difficult 
and dangerous to the Christians. The barbarity of their 
manners, and the confusions attending their unsettled 
government, exposed the pilgrims to many insults, 
robberies, and extortions: and these zealots, returning 
from their meritorious fatigues and sufferings, filled all 
Christendom with indignation against the infidels, who 
profaned the holy city by their presence, and derided 
the sacred mysteries in the very place of their com- 
pletion. Gregory VII., among the other vast ideas 
which he entertained, had formed the design of uniting 
all the Vestern Christians against the Mahometans; 
but the egregious and violent invasions of that pontiff 
on the civil power of princes, had created him so many 
enemies, and had rendered his schemes so suspicious, 
that he was not able to make great progress in this 



THE FIRST CRUSADE. o5 
But though Italy seemed thus to have zealously em- 
braced the enterprise, lIartin knew, that, in order to 
insure success, it was necessary to enlist the greater and 
more warlike nations in the same engagement; and 
having previously exhorted Peter to visit the chief cities 
and sovereigns of Christendom, he summoncd another 
council at Clermont in Auvcrgnc. The fame of this 
great and pious dcign being now universally diffused, 
procured the attendance of the greatest prelates, nobles, 
and princes ; and when the Pope and the Hermit rcnewed 
their pathetic exhortations, the whole assembly, as if 
impelled by an immediate inspiration, not moved by 
thcir preceding impressions, exclaimcd with one voice, 1! 
is the a,ill of God, It is the a,ill of God !--words deemed 
so memorable, and so much the result of a divine influ- 
ence, that the)" were employed as the signal of rendezvous 
and battle in all the future exploits of those adventurers. 
Men of all ranks flew to arms with the utmost ardor; 
and an exterior symbol, too, a circumstance of chief 
moment, was here chosen by the devoted combatants. 
The sign of the cross, which had been hitherto so much 
revered among Christians, and  hich, the more it was an 
object of reproach among the Pagan world, was the more 
passionately cherished by them, became the badge of 
union, and was affixed to their right shoulder, by all who 
enlisted themselves in this sacred warfare. 
Europe was at this time sunk into profound ignorance 
and superstition. The ecclesiastics had acquired the 
greatest ascendant over the human mind: the people, 
who, being little restrained by honor, and less by law, 
abandoned themselves to the worst crimes and disorders, 
knew of no other expiation than the observances imposed 
on them by their spiritual pastors: and it was easy to 



m6 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 

represent the holy war as an equivalent for all penances, 
and an atonement for every violation of justice and 
humanity. But amidst the abject superstition which 
now prevailed, the military spirit also had universally 
diffused itself; and though not supported by art or 
discipline, was become the general passion of the nations 
gorcrncd by the feudal law. All the great lords pos- 
sessed the right of peace and war: they were engaged 
in perpetual hostilities with each other : the open country 
was become a scene of outrage and disorder : the cities, 
still mean and poor, wcrc neither guarded by walls nor 
protected by privileges, and wcrc exposed to every 
insult : individuals wcrc obliged to depend for safety on 
".heir own force, or their private alliances : and valor was 
the only excellence whicla was held in esteem, or gave 
one man the pre-eminence above another. When all the 
particular superstitions, therefore, wcrc here united in 
oae great object, the ardor for military enterprises took 
the same direction; and Europe, impelled by its two 
ruling passions, was loosened, as it were, from its found- 
ations, and sccmcd to precipitate itself in one united 
body upon the East. 
All orders of men, deeming the Crusades the only 
road to heaven, enlisted themselves under these sacred 
banners, and were impatient to open the way with their 
sword to the hly city. Nobles, artisans, peasants, even 
priests, enrolled their names; and to decline this meri- 
torious service was branded with the reproach of impiety, 
or, what perhaps was esteemed still more disgraceful, of 
cowardice and pusillanimity. The infirm and aged con- 
tributed to the expedition by presents and money ; and 
man), cf them, not satisfied with the merit of this atone- 
ment attended it in person, and wcrc dctcrmincd, if 



THE FIRST CRUSADE. to 9 
fatigue, the influence of unknown climates, joined to the 
want of concert in their operations, and to the sword of 
a warlike enemy, destroyed the adventurers by thousands, 
and would have abated the ardor of men impelled to war 
by less powerful motives. Their zeal, hovever, their 
bravery, and their irresistible force, still carried them 
forward, and continually advanced them to the great end 
of their enterprise. After an obstinate siege the)" took 
Nice, the seat of the Turkish empire; they defeated 
Soliman in two great battles;they made themselves 
masters of Antioch ; and entirely broke the force of the 
Turks, who had so long retained those countries in 
subjection. The soldan of Egypt, whose alliance the)- 
had hitherto courted, recovered, on the fall of the Turkish 
power, his former authority in Jerusalem; and he in- 
formed them by his ambassadors, that if the)" came 
disarmed to that city, they might now perform their 
religious vows, and that all Christian pilgrims, ho 
should thenceforth visit the holy sepulchre, might expect 
the same good treatment which they had ever received 
from his predecessors. The offer was rejected; the 
soldan was required to yield up the city to the Christians ; 
and on his refusal, the champions of the cross advanced 
to the siege of Jerusalem, which they regarded as the 
consummation of their labors. By the detachments 
which they had made, and the disasters  hich they had 
undergone, they were diminished to the number of 
twenty thousand foot, and fifteen hundred horse; but 
these were still formidable, from their valor, their ex- 
perience, and the obedience which, from past calamities, 
they had learned to pay to their leaders. After a siege of 
five weeks, they took Jerusalem by assault ; and, impelled 
by a mixture of military and religious rage, they put the 



THE BARD. 

Mark the year, and mark the night, 
When Severn shall re-echo with affright 
The shrieks of death, through Berkley's roof that ring, 
Shrieks of an agonizing king ! 
She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, 
That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate, 
From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs 
The scourge of heaven. What terrors round him wait 
Amazement in his van, with flight combin'd, 
And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. 

II. z. 

"Mighty victor, mighty lord ! 
Low on his funeral couch he lies ! 
No pitying heart, no eye, afford 
A tear to grace his obsequies. 
Is the sable warrior fled ? 
Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. 
The swarm, that in thy noontide beam were born ? 
(;one to salute the rising morn. 
Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the Zephyr blows, 
While proudly riding o'er the azure reahn 
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes ; 
Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm ; 
Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway, 
That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his eening prey. 

II. 3- 
" Fill high the sparkling bowl, 
The rich repast prepare ; 
Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast : 
Close by the regal chair 
Fell Thirst and Famine scowl 
A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. 



I4 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER 
Heard ye the din of battle bray, 
Lance to lance and horse to horse ? 
Long years of havoc urge their destin'd course, 
And through the kindred squadrons mow their way. 
Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, 
With many a foul and midnight murder fed, 
Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame, 
And spare the meek usurpcr's holy Read. 
Above, below, the rose of snow, 
Twin'd with her blushing foe, c spread : 
Yhe bristled boar in infant-gore 
Wallows beneath the thorny shade. 
Now, brothers, bending o'er the accurs:d loom, 
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. 

" Edward, lo ! to sudden fate 
Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.) 
Half of thy heart we consecrate. 
(The web is wove. The work is done.) 
Stay, O stay ! nor thus forlorn 
l.eave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn : 
In yon bright track, that fires the western skies, 
They melt, they vanish from my eyes. 
But oh ! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height 
Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll ? 
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight ! 
Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul : 
No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail. 
All hail, ye genuine kings, 13ritannia's issue, hail '. 

III. 2. 
" Girt with many a baron bold 
Sublime their stm-ry fx3txts they rear 



And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old 
In bearded majesty, appear. 
In the midst a form divine ! 
Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line ; 
Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face, 
Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace. 
What strings symphonious tremble in the air, 
What strains of vocal transport round her play. 
Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear 
They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. 
Bright Papture calls, and soaring, as she sings, 
Waves in the eye of heaven her many-color'd wings. 

III. 3- 
"The verse adorn again 
Fierce War, and faithful l.ove, 
And Truth severe, by fair), Fiction drest. 
In buskin'd measures move 
Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, 
With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. 
A voice, as of the cherub-choir, 
Gales from blooming Eden bear; 
And distant warblings lessen on my ear, 
That lost in long futurity expire. 
Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud, 
Rais'd by thy breath, has quench d the orb of day ? 
To-morrow he repairs the golden flood, 
And warms the nations with redoubled ray. 
Enough for me : with joy I see 
The different doom our fates assign. 
Be thine despair, and sceptred care ; 
To triumph, and to die, are mine." 
He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height 
Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. 

115 



6 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 

XXI. 

ON AN ADDRESS TO THE THRONE CONCERNING 
AFFAIRS IN AMERICA. 
HOUSE OF LORDS---.N'oember iSth, I777. 

LORD CHATHAM.--IToS-I778. 
I RISE, m)- Lords, to declare my" sentimeuts on this 
most solemn and serious subject. It has imposed a load 
upon my mind, which, I fear, nothing can remove, but 
which impels me to endeavor its allexfiation, by" a free 
and unreserved| communication of my sentiments. 
In the first part of the address, I have the honor of 
heartily concurring with the noble Earl who moved it_ 
No man feels sincerer joy" than I do ; none can offer more 
genuine congratulations on every accession of strength 
to the Protestant succession. I therefore join in every 
congratulation on the birth of another princess, and the 
happy" recovery" of her Majesty". 
But I must stop here. My courtly" complaisance will 
carry me no farther. I will not join in congratulation 
on misfortune and disgrace. [ cannot concur in a blind 
and servile address, which approves and endeavors to 
sanctify the monstrous measures which have heaped dis- 
grace and misfortune upon us. This, my" Lords, is a 
perilous and tremendous moment! It is not a time for 
adulation. The smoothness of flatte D - cannot now 
avail---cannot save us in this rugged and awful crisis. It 
is now necessary to instruct the Throne in the language 
of truth. We must dispel the illusion and the darkness 
which envelop it, and dispiay, in its full danger and true 
colors, the ruin that is brought to our doors. 
This, my Lords, is our duty. It is the proper function 
of this noble assembly, sitting, as we do, upon our honors 



OA" AN ADDRESS TO THE THRO.VE. 7 
in this l[ouse, the hereditary council of the Crown. 
ll'/zo is the ministcr--a,/wre is the minister, that has 
dared to suggest to the Throne the contrary, uncon- 
stitutional language this day delivered from it ? The 
accustomed language from the Throne has been appli- 
cation to Parliament for advice, and a reliance on its 
constitutional advice and assistance. As it is the right 
of Parliament to give, so it is the duty of the Crown to 
ask it. But on this day, and in this extreme momentous 
exigency, no reliance is reposed on our constitutional 
counsels ! no advice is asked from the sober and enlight- 
ened care of Parliament ! but the Crown, from itself and 
by itself, declares an unalterable determination to pursue 
measures--and what measures, my Lords ? The mea- 
sures that have produced the imminent perils that 
threaten us ; the measures that have brought ruin to our 
doors. 
Can the minister of the day now presume to expect a 
continuance of support in this ruinous infatuation ? Can 
Parliament be so dead to its dignity and its duty as to 
be thus deluded into the loss of the one and the violation 
of the other ? To We an unlimited credit and support 
for the stead)- perseverance in measures not proposed fir 
our parliamentary advice, but dictated and forced upon 
us--in measures, I say, my Lords, which have reduced 
this late flourishing empire to.ruin and contempt ! " But 
yesterday, and England might ave stood against the 
world: now none so poor to do her reverence." I use 
the words of a poet ; but, though it be poet W, it is no 
fiction. It is a shameful truth, that not only the power 
and strength of this country are wasting awa)" and ex- 
piring, but her well-earned glories, her true honor, and 
substantial dignity arc sacrificed. 



I zo THE ttlGH SCHOOL READER. 
them and their possessions to the rapacity of hireling 
cruelty ! If I were an American, as I am an English- 
man, while a foreign troop was landed in my country, I 
never would lay down m)" arms--never--never--never. 
But, nay Lords, who is the man, that, in addition to 
these disgraces and mischiefs of our army, has dared to 
authorize and associate to our arms the tomahawk and 
scalping-knife of the savage ? to call into civilized alliance 
the wild and inhuman savage of the woods ; to delegate 
to the merciless Indian the defence of disputed rights, 
anil to x, age the horrors of his barbarous war against our 
brethren ? lIy Lords, these enormities cry aloud for 
redress and punishment. Unless thoroughly done awa)-, 
it will be a stain on the national character. It is a vio- 
lation of the Constitution. I believe it is against law. 
It is n,t the least of our national misfortunes that the 
strength and character of our arm), are thus impaired. 
Infected with the mercenary spirit of robbel 3- and rapine, 
familiarized to the horrid scenes of savage cruelty, it can 
no longer boast of the noble and generous principles 
which dignif)" a soldier, no longer s)'mpathize with the 
dignity of the royal banner, nor feel the pride, pomp, and 
circumstance of glorious war, " that make ambition 
virtue!" \Vhat makes ambition virtue ?--the sense of 
honor. But is the sense of honor consistent with a spirit 
of plunder, or the practice of murder ? Can it flow from 
mercenary motives, or can it prompt to cruel deeds ? 
The independent viexvs of America have been stated 
and asserted as the foundation of this address, lIy 
Lords, no man wishes for the due dependence of America 
on this country more than I do. To preserve it, and not 
confirm that state of independence into which )'our 
measures hitherto have driven them, is the object which 



O V./IV tID1)RESS TO 11t1: 

we ought to unite in attaining. The Americans, con- 
tending for their rights against arbitrary exactions, I 
love and admire. It is the struggle of free and virtuous 
patriots. But, contending for independency and total 
disconnection from England, as an Englishman, I cannot 
wish them success; for in a due constitutional depen- 
dency, including the ancient supremacy of this country 
in regulating their commerce and navigation, consists 
the mutual happiness and prosperity both of England 
and America. She derived assistance and protection 
from us; and we reaped from her the most important 
ad antages. She was, indeed, the fountain of our wealth, 
the nerve of our strength, the nursery and basis of our 
naval power. It is our duty, therefore, my Lords, if we 
wish to save our country, most seriously to endeavor the 
recovery of these most beneficial subjects ; and in thN 
perilous crisis, perhaps the present moment may be the 
only one in which we can hope for success. For in their 
negotiations with France, they have, or think the)- have, 
reason to complain ; though it be notorious that the)" have 
received from that power important supplies and assis- 
tance of various kinds, yet it is certain the)- expected it 
in a more decisive and immediate degree. America is in 
ill humor with France; on some points the)- have not 
entirely answered her expectations. Let us wisely take 
advantage of every possible moment of reconciliation. 
Besides, the natural disposition of America herself still 
leans toward England; to the old habits of connection 
and mutual interest that united both countries. This 
was the established sehtiment of all the continent ; and 
still, my Lords, in the great and principal part, the sound 
part of America, this wise and affectionate disposition 
prevails. And there is a very considerable part of 



ON AI  ADDRESS I' 
whcn I consider these things, I cannot but lament the 
inconsiderate violence of our pcnal acts, our declaration 
of treason and rebellion, with all the fatal eNccts of 
attahder and confiscation. 
As to the disposition of foreign powers which is as- 
serted [in the King's speech] to be pacific and friendly, 
let us judge, my Lords, rather by their actions antl the 
nature of things than by interested assertions. The 
uniform assistance supplied to America by France sug- 
gests a different conclusion. The most important inter- 
ests of France in aggrandizing and enriching herself 
with what she most wants, supplies of every naval store 
from America, must inspire her with different sentiments. 
The extraordinary preparations of the House of Bourbon, 
by land and by sea, from Dunkirk to the Straits, equally 
read)" and willing to overwhelm these defenceless islands, 
should rouse us to a sense of their real disposition and 
our own danger. Not five thousand troops in England 
hardly three thousand in Ireland ! What can we oppose 
to the combined force of our enemies ? Scarcely twm.ty 
ships of the line so fully or sufficiently manned, that 
any admiral's reputation would permit him to take the 
command of. The river of Lisbon in the possession of 
our enemies ! The seas swept by American privateers 
Our Channel trade torn to pieces by them! In this 
complicated crisis of danger, weakness at home, and 
calamity abroad, terrified and insulted by the neighbor- 
ing powers, unable to act in America, or acting only to 
be destroyed, where is the man with the forehead to 
promise, or hope fr success in such a situation, or from 
perseverance in the measures that have driven us to it ? 
\Vho has the forehead to do so ? \Vhere is that man ? 
I should be glad to see his face. 



FRO.II "THE" bICAR OF II'AKEFirEZD." 127 

cheerfully co-operate xvith the magnanimity and tender 
goodness of his Majesty for the prcser'ation of his 
people, by such explicit and most solemn declarations, 
and provisions of fundamental and irrevocable laws, as 
may bc judged necessary for the ascertaining and fixing 
forever the respective rights of Great Britain and her 
colonies." 

XXII. FROM "THE VICAR. OF WAKEFIELD." 

THE FAMILY USE ART, ,VHI(H l.'S OPPOSED ,VI'IH .'qTILL 
GRE-TER. 

OLIVER (;OLDSMITH.--I728 I774. 
\WHATEVER might have bccn Sophia's sensations, the 
rest of the family was easily consoled for Mr. Burchcll's 
absence by the company of our landlord, whose visits 
noxv became more frequent and longer. Though he 
had been disappointed in procuring my daughters the 
amusements of the town, as he dcsigne,l, he took every 
opportunity of supplying them with those little recreations 
which our retirement would admit of. tic usually came 
in the morning, and while my son and I followed our 
occupations abroad, he sat with the family at home, and 
amused them by describing the town, with every part of 
which he was particularly acquainted. He could repeat 
all the observations that were retailed in the atmosphere 
of the play-houses, and had all the good things of the 
high vits by rote long before they made their way into 
the jest-book The intervals between conversation were 
employed in teaching my daughters piquet, or sometimes 
in setting my two little ones to box to make them sharl:,, 



28 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 

as he called it ; but the hopes of having him for a son-in- 
law, in some measure blinded us to all his imperfections. 
It must be owned that my wife laid a thousand schemes 
to entrap him ; or, to speak it more tenderly, used every 
art to magnify the merit of her daughter. If the cakes 
at tea ate short and crisp, the), were made by Olivia : if 
the gooseberry wine was well knit, the gooseberries vere 
of her gathering : it was her fingers that gave the pickles 
their peculiar green ; and in the composition of a pudding, 
it was her judgment that mixed the ingredients. Then 
the poor xvoman would sometimes tell the 'squire, that 
she thought him and Olivia extremely of a size, and 
would bid both stand up to see which was tallest. These 
instances of cunning, which she thought impenetrable, 
yet which everybody saw through, were very pleasing to 
our benefactor, who gave every day some new proofs of 
his passion, which, though the)" had not risen to proposals 
of marriage, yet we thought fell but little short of it ; and 
his slowness was attributed sometimes to nati'c bashful- 
ness, and sometimes to his fear of offending his uncle. 
An occurrence, however, which happened soon after, put 
it beyond a doubt that he designed to become one of 
our family; my wife even regarded it as an absolute 
promise. 
My wife and daughters happening to return a visit to 
neighbor Flamborough's, found that family had lately 
got their pictures drawn by a limner, who travelled the 
country, and took likenesses for fifteen shillings a head. 
As this family and ours laad long a sort of rivalry in 
point of taste, our spirit took the alarm at this stolen 
march upon us, and notwithstanding all I could say, 
and I said much, it was resolved that xve should have 
our pictures done too. Having, therefore, engaged the 



13o THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 
be owned he did not spare his colors; for which my wife 
gave him great encomiums. We were all perfectly 
satisfied with his performance; but an unfortunate cir- 
cumstance had not occurred till the picture was finished, 
which now struck us with dismay. It was so very large 
that we had 11o place in the house to fix it. How we 
all came to disregard so material a point is inconceivable ; 
but certain it is, we had been all greatly remiss. The 
picture, therefore, instead of gratifying our vanity, as we 
hoped, leaned, in a most mortifying manner, against the 
kitchen wall, where the canvas was stretched and 
painted, much too large to be got through any of the 
doors, and the jest of all our neighbors. One compared 
it to Robinson Crusoe's long-boat, too large to be removed- 
another thought it more resembled a reel in a bottle 
some wondered how it could be got out, but still more 
were amazed how it ever got in. 
But though it excited the ridicule of some, it effectually 
raised more malicious suggestions in many. The 'squire's 
portrait beiug found 'united with ours, was an honor too 
great to escape envy. Scandalous whispers began to 
circulate at our expense, and our tranquillity was con- 
tinually disturbed by persons who came as friends to 
tell us what was said of us by enemies. These reports 
we always resented with becoming spirit; but scandal 
ever improves by opposition. 
\Ve once again therefore entered into a corsultation 
upon obviating the malice of our enemies, and at last 
came to a resolution which had too much cunning to 
give me entire satisfaction. It was this : as our principal 
object was to discover the honor of lIr. Thornhill's 
addresses, my wife undertook to sound him by pretend- 
ing to ask his advice in the choice of an husband for her 



FRO.II "THE I"ICAR OF IVAKEFIELD." 

eldest daughter. If this was not found sufficient to 
induce him to a declaration, it was then resoh'ed to 
terrify him with a rival. To this last step, however, I 
would by no means give my consent, till Olivia gave me 
the most solemn assurances that she would marry the 
person provided to rival him upon this occasion, if he 
did not prevent it, by taking her himself. Such was the 
scheme laid, which, though I did not strenuously oppose, 
I did not entirely approve. 
The next time, therefore, that lXIr. Thornhill came to 
see us, my girls took care to be out of the way, in order 
to give their mamma an opportunity of putting her 
scheme in execution ; but they only retired to the next 
room, whence they could overhear the whole conversa- 
tion : my wife artfully introduced it, by observing, that one 
of the Miss Flamboroughs was like to have a very good 
match of it in Mr. Spanker. To this the 'squire assenting, 
she proceeded to remar, k, that they who had warm 
fortunes were ahvays sure of getting good husbands: 
" But heaven help," continued she, "the girls that have 
none. What signifies beauty, Mr. Thornhill? or what 
signifies all the virtue, and all the qualifications in the 
world, in this age of self-interest ? It is not, what is she? 
but, what has she ? is all the cry." 
" Madam," returned he, " I highly approve the justice, 
as well as the novelty, of your remarks, and if I were a 
king, it should be otherwise. It should then, iadeed, be 
fine times for the girls without fortunes : our two young 
ladies should be the first for whom I xvould provide." 
"Ah, sir," returned my wife, "' you are pleased to be 
facetious: but I wish I were a queen, and then I know 
where my eldest daughter should look for an husband. 
But now that you have put it into my head, seriously 



ilEETLVG OFJOH, VSON IIYTH II'ILA'E& 

world," said Mr. Edward Dilly: " Dr. Johnson would 
never forgive me." " Come," said I, " if you'll let me 
negotiate for you, I will be answerable that all shall go 
well." ])ilO: " Nay, if you will take it upon you, I am 
sure I shall be very happy to see them both here." 
Notwithstanding the high veneration which I enter- 
tained for Dr. Johnson, I was sensible that he was some- 
times a little actuated by the spirit of contradiction, and 
by means of that I hoped I should gain my point. I 
was persuaded that if I had come upon him with a direct 
proposal, "Sir, will you dine in company with Jack 
Wilkes ? " he would have flown into a passion, and would 
probably have answered, " Dine with Jack \Vilkes, Sir! 
I'd as soon dine with Jack Ketch." I, therefore, while 
we were sitting quietly by ourselves at his house in all 
evening, took occasion to open my plan thus:" iIr. 
Dilly, Sir, sends his respectful compliments to you, and 
would be happy if you would do him the honor to dine 
with him on Wednesday next along with me, as I must 
soon go to Scotland." Johnson. "Sir, I am obliged to 
Mr. Dilly. I will wait upon him." Boswell. " Provided, 
Sir, I suppose, that the company which he is to have is 
agreeable to you ? " ]ohnsoz. " What do you mean, 
Sir? What do you take me for? Do you think I am 
so ignorant of the world as to imane that I am to 
prescribe to a gentleman what company- he is to have at 
his table?" Boswell. " I beg your pardon, Sir, for 
wishing to prevent you from meeting people whom you 
might not like. Perhaps he may have some of what he 
calls his patriotic friends with him." Johnson. " Well, 
Sir, and what then ? What care I for his atriotic 
friends ? Poh !" Boswell. " I should not be surprizcd 
to find Jack Wilkes there." Johnson. " And if Jack 



THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 

Wilkes should be there, what is that to ,ne, Sir ? My 
dear friend, let us have no more of this. I am sorry to 
be angry with you ; but really it is treating me strangely 
to talk to me as if I could not meet any company vhat- 
ever, occasionally." Boszedl. " Pray forgive me, Sir, I 
meant well. But you shall meet whoever comes, for 
me." Thus I secured him, and told Dilly that he would 
find him very well pleased to be one of his guests on the 
day appointed. 
Upon the much expected Wednesday, I called on him 
about half an hour before dinner, as I often did when we 
were to dine out together, to see that he was ready in 
time, and to accompany him. I found him buffeting his 
books, as upon a former occasion, covered with dust, and 
making no preparation for going abroad. " How is this, 
Sir ? " said I. " Don't you recollect that you are to dine 
at ]lr. Dilly's ?" Johnson. " Sir, I did not think of 
going to Dilly's ; it went out of my head. I have or- 
dered dinner at home with Mrs. Williams." oswell. 
" But, my dear Sir, you know you were engaged to Ir. 
Dilly, and I told h.im so. He will expect you, and will 
be much disappointed if you don't come." Johnson. 
" You must talk to Mrs Williams about this." 
Here was a sad dilemma. I feared that what I was 
so confident I had secured would yet be fiustrated. He 
had accustomed himself to show grs. Williams such a 
degree of humane attention, as frequently imposed some 
restraint upon him; and I knew that if she should be 
obstinate, he would not stir. I hastened down stairs to 
the blind lady's room, and told her I was in great un- 
easiness, for Dr. Johnson had engaged to me to dine this 
day at Mr. Dilly's, but that he had told me he had for- 
gotten his engagement, and had ordered dinner at home, 



138 THE HIGH SCHOOL RI.4DER. 

not but be very obnoxious to Johnson, for he was not 
"only a tatriot, but an American. He was afterwards 
minister from the United States at the court of Madrid. 
" And who is the gentleman in lace ? "---" Mr. Wilkes, 
Sir." This information confounded him still more; he 
had some difficulty to restrain himself, and, taking up a 
book, sat down upon a window-seat and read, or at least 
kept his eye upon it intently for some time, till he com- 
posed himself. His feelings, I dare say, vere awkward 
enough. But he had no doubt recollected his having 
rated me for supposing that he could be at all discon- 
certed by any company, and he, therefore, resolutely set 
himself to behave quite as an easy man of the world, 
who could adapt himself at once to the disposition and 
manners of those whom he might chance to meet. 
The cheering sound of " Dinner is upon the table," 
dissolved his reverie, and we all sat dovn without any 
symptoms of ill humor. Mr. Wilkes placed himself 
next to Dr. Johnson, and behaved to him with so much 
attention and politeness, that he gained upon him in- 
sensibly. No man ate more heartily than Johnson, or 
loved better what was nice and delicate. Mr. Wilkes 
was very assiduous in helping him to some fine veal. 
"' Pray give me leave, Sir--It is better here--A little of 
the brown--Some fat, Sir--A little of the stuffing-- 
Some gravyLet me have the pleasure of giving you 
some butter--Allow me to recommend a squeeze of this 
orange ; or the lemon, perhaps may have more zest."--- 
" Sir; sir, I am obliged to you, Sir," cried Johnson, 
bowing, and turning his head to him with a look for 
some time of " surly virtue," but, in a short while of 
complacency. 
Foote being mentioned, Johnson said, " He is not a 



.IlIz-ETLVG OF JOHNSON II'ITH II'ILR'ES. 139 
good mimic." One of the company added, " A merry- 
andrew, a buffoon." Johnson. " But he has wit too, and 
is not deficient in ideas, or in fertility and variety 
of imagery, and not empty of reading ; he has know- 
ledge enough to fill up his part. One species of wit he 
has in an eminent degree, that of escape. rou drive him 
into a corner with both hands ; but he is gone, Sir, when 
you think you have got him--like an animal that jumps 
over your head. Then he has a great range for wit; 
he never lets truth stand between him and the jest, and 
he is sometimes mighty coarse. Garrick is undcr many 
restraints from which Foote is free." lfSlkes. " Garrick's 
wit is more like Lord Chesterficld's." Johnsoz. " The 
first time I was in company with Foote was at 
Fitzhcrbert's. Having no good opinion of the fellow, I 
was resolved not to be pleased; and it is vc W difficult 
to please a man against his will. I went on eating my 
dinner pretty sullenly, affecting not to mind him. But 
the dog was so very comical, that I was obliged to lay 
down nay knife and fork, throw myself back in my chair, 
and fairly laugh it out. No, Sir, he was irresistible. He 
upon one occasion experienced, in an extraordinary 
dcgrce, (he efficacy of his powers of entertaining. 
Amongst the many and various modes which he tried of 
getting money, he became a partner with a small-beer 
brewer, and he was to have a share of the profits for 
procuring customers amongst his numerous acquaint- 
ance. Fitzherbert was one who took his small-beer, but 
it was so bad that the ser-ants resolved not to drink it. 
They were at some loss how to notify their resolution, 
being afraid of offending thcir master, who, they knew, 
liked Foote much as a companion. At last they fixed 
upon a little black boy, who was rather a favorite, to be 



I4O 

THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 

their deputy, and deliver their remonstrance ; and, having 
invested him with the sole authority of the kitchen, he 
was to inform Mr. Fitzherbcrt, in all their names, upon a 
certain day, that they would drink Footc's small-beer no 
longer. On that day Footc happened to dine at Fitz- 
herbert's, and this boy served at table; he was so 
delighted with Foote's stories, and merriment, and 
grimace, that when he went down stairs, he told them, 
' This is the finest man I have ever seen. I will not de- 
liver your message. [ will drink his small-beer.'" 
Bin \Viikes remarked, that " among all the bold 
flights of Shakespeare's imagination, the boldest was 
making Birnam-wood march to Dunsinane ; creating a 
wood where there never was a shrub ; a wood in Scot- 
land ! ha ! ha ! ha !" And he also observed, that " the 
clannish slavery of the Highlands of Scotland was the 
single cxccption to Milton's rcmark of ' the mountain 
nymph, sweet Liberty,' being worshipped in all hilly 
countries." " \Vhen I was at Invcrary," said he, "on a 
visit to my ohl friend ,hrchibaid, Duke of Argyle, his 
dependents congratulated me on being such a favorite of 
his Grace. I said, 'It is, then, gentlemen, truly lucky 
for me; for if I had di.pleascd the Duke, and he had 
wished it, there is not a Campbell among you but would 
have been ready to bring John \Viikes's head to him in 
a charger. It would have been only 
'Off with his head ! so much for .l_rlesl, ury: 
[ was then member for Aylcsbury." 
Bin Arthur Lee mentioned some Scotch who had 
taken possession of a barren part of America, and 
wondered why they should choose it. j'olmsn. " Why, 
Sir, all barrcnncss is comparativc, The Scolc] would n.ot 



THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 

could vish, will serve to give a notion of a very curious 
inter'iew, which was not only pleasing at the time, but 
had the agreeable and benignant effect of reconciling 
any animosity, and sweetening any acidity, which, in the 
various bustle of political contest, had been produced in 
the minds of two men, who, though widely different, had 
so many things in common--classical learning, modern 
literature, wit and humor, and ready repartee--that it 
would have been much to be regretted if they had been 
forever at a distance from each other. 
Mr. Burke gave me much credit for this successful 
negotiation ; and pleasantly said, "that there was nothing 
equal to it in the whole history of the corls diplomatique.'" 
I attended Dr. Johnson home, and had the satisfaction 
to hear him tell Mrs. Williams how much he had been 
pleased with Mr. \Vilkes's company, and what an agree- 
able day he had passed. 

XXIV. THE POLICY OF THE EMPIRE IN THE FIRST 
CENTURY. 

EDWARD GIBBON.--I737-X794. 
From THE DECLINE AND FALL OF THE ROM XN EMPIRE. 
IN the second century of the Christian era. the empire 
of Rome comprehended the fairest part of the earth, and 
the most civilized portion of mankind. The frontiers of 
that extensive monarchy were guarded by ancient re- 
nown and disciplined valor. The gentle but powerful 
influence of laws and manners had gradually cemented 
the union of the provinces. Their peaceful inhabitants 



THE POLICY OF THE EMPIRE. t43 
enjoyed and abused the advantages of wealth and luxury. 
The image of a free constitution was preserx-ed with 
decent reverence : the Roman senate appeared to possess 
the sovereign authority, and devolved on the emperors 
all the executive powers of government. During a 
happy period of more than fourscore years, the public 
administration was conducted by the virtue and abilities 
of Nerva, Trajan, Hadrian, and the two .Antonincs. 
The principal conquests of the Romans were achieved 
under the republic ; and the emperors, for the most part, 
were satisfied with preserving those dominions which 
had been acquired by the policy of the senate, the 
active emulation of the consuls, and the martial en- 
thusiasm of the people. The seven first centuries were 
filled with a rapid succession of triumphs: but it was 
reserved for Augustus to relinquish the ambitious design 
of subduing the whole earth, and to introduce a spirit 
of moderation into the public councils. Inclined to 
peace by his temper and situation, it was easy for him 
to discover that Rome, in her present exalted situation, 
had much less to hope than to fear from the chance of 
arms ; and that, in the prosecution of remote wars, the 
undertaking became every day more difficult, the event 
more doubtful, and the possession more precarious and 
less beneficial. The experience of Augustus added 
weight to these salutary reflections, and effectually con- 
vinced him that, by the prudent vigor of his counsels, it 
vould be easy to secure ever), concession which the 
safety or the dignity of Rome might require from the 
most formidable barbarians. Instead of exposing his 
person and his legions to the arrows of the Parthians, he 
obtained, by an honorable treaty, the restitution of the 
standards and prisoners which had been taken in the 
defeat of Crassus. 



THE POI.IC}" OF THE EIIPIRE. 
t, his care, without aspiring to conquests which might 
have proved no less fatal to himself than to the van- 
quished barbarians. 
The ouly accession which the Roman empire received 
during the first century of the Christian era was the 
province of Britain. In this single instance the suc- 
cessors of Cesar and Augustus were persuaded to follow 
the example of the former, rather than the precept of 
the latter. The proximity of its situation to the coast 
of Gaul seemecl to invite their arms; the pleasing, 
though doubtful, intelligence of a pearl-fishery attracted 
their avarice ; and as Britain was viewed in the light of 
a distinct and insulated world, the conquest scarcely 
formed any exception to the general system of conti- 
nental measures. After a war of about forty )-ears, 
undertaken by the most stupid, maintained by the most 
dissolute, and terminated by the most timid of all the 
emperors, the far greater part of the island submitted to 
the Roman yoke. The various tribes of Britons pos- 
sessed valor without conduct, and the love of freedom 
without the spirit of union. They took up arms with 
savage fierceness ; they laid them down, or turned them 
against each other, with wiM inconstancy; and while 
they fought singly, they were successively'subdued. 
Neither the fortitude of Caractacus, nor the *lespair of 
Boadicea, no) the fanaticism of the DruMs, could avert 
the slavery of their country, or resist the steady progress 
of the imperial generals, who maintained the national 
glory, when the throne vas disgraced by the weakest or 
the most vicious of mankind. At the very time when 
Domitian, confined to his palace, felt the terrors which 
he inspired, his legions, under the command of the vir- 
tuous Agricola, defeated the collected force of the Cale- 
J 



could no longer serve them, the ministers have considered 
nay situation. When I could no longer hurt them, the 
revolutionists have trampled on my infirmity. 
gratitude, I trust, is equal to the manner in which the 
benefit was conferred. It came to me, indeed, at a time 
of life, and in a state of mind and body, in which no 
circulnstance of fortune could afford me any real plea- 
sure. But this was no fault in the royal donor, or in his 
ministers, who were pleased, in acknowledging the merits 
cf an invalid servant of the public, to assuage the sor- 
r,ws of a desolate old man. 
I was not like his Grace of Bedford, swaddled, and 
rocked, and dandled into a legislator: %Vitor ht ad'ersum" 
is the motto for a man like me. I possessed not one of 
the qualities, nor cultivated one of the arts, that recom- 
mend men to the favor and protection of the great. I 
xvas not made for a minion or a tool. As little did 
follow the trade of winning the hearts by imposing on 
the understandings of the people. At every.step of my 
progress in life--for in every step was I traver.sed and 
opposed--and at every turnpile I met, I was obliged to 
hew my passport, and again and again to prove my sole 
title to the honor of being useful to my countr)', by a 
proof that I was not wholly unacquainted with its laws, 
and the whole system of its interests both abroad and at 
home. Othemvise, no rank, no toleration even, for me. 
I had no arts but manly arts. On them I have stood, 
and, please God, in spite of the Duke of Bedford and the 
Earl of Lauderdale, to the last gasp will I stand .... 
The Duke of Bedford conceives that he is obliged to 
call the attention of the House of Peers to his Majesty's 
grant to me, which he considers as excessive and out 
all bounds. 



I5o THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 
in youth, strength, or figure, with the Duke of Bedford, 
than to make a parallel between his services and my 
attempts to be useful to my country. It would not be 
gross adulation, but unciq_l irony, to say that he has any 
public merit of his own to keep alive the idea of the 
services by which his vast landed pensions were obtained. 
My merits, whatever they are, are original and personal : 
his are derivative. It is his ancestor, the original pen- 
sioner, that has laid up this inexhaustible fund of merit, 
which makes his Grace so very delicate anti exceptious 
about the merit of all other grantees of the crown. 
Had he permitted me to remain in quiet, I should have 
said : " 'Tis his estate ; that's enough. It is his by law ; 
what have I to do with it or its history?" He woult! 
naturall)- have said on his side : " 'Tis this man's fortune. 
He is as good now as my ancestor was two hundred 
and fifty years ago. I am a young man with ver b - old 
pensions: he is an old man with very )'oung pensions-- 
that's all." 
\\lay will his Grace, by attacking me, force me reluc- 
tantly to compare my little merit with that which 
obtained from the crown those prodigies of profuse 
donation by which he tramples on the mediocrity of 
humble and laborious individuals ? .... Since the 
new grantees have war made on them b)" the old, and 
that the word of the sovereign is not to be taken, let us 
turn our eyes to history, in which great men have always 
a pleasure in contemplating the heroic origin of their 
house. 
The first peer of the name, the first purchaser of the 
grants, vas a Mr. Russell, a person of an ancient gentle- 
man's family, raised by being a minion of Henry the 
Eighth. As there generally is some resemblance of 



52 

THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 

sions was in giving his hand to the work, and partaking 
the spoil with a prince who plundered a part of the 
national church of his time and country. Mine was in 
defending the whole of the national church of my own 
time and my own countr)', and the whole of the national 
churches of all countries, from the principles and the 
examples which lead to ecclesiastical pillage, thence to 
a contempt of all prescriptive titles, thence to the pillage 
of all property, and thence to universal desolation. 
The ncrit of the origin of his Grace's fortune was in 
being a favorite and chief adviser to a prince who left no 
liberty to his native countr)'. My endeavor was to obtain 
liberty for the municipal country in which I was born, 
and for all descriptions and denominations in it. Mine 
was to support, with unrelaxing vigilance, every right, 
ever)" privilege, every franchise, in this my adopted, my 
dearer, and more comprehensive country ; and not only 
to preserve those fights in this chief seat of empire, but 
in every nation, in every land, in every climate, language, 
and religion, in the x'ast domain that still is under the 
protection, and the larger that was once under the pro- 
tection, of the British crown. 
His founder's merits were, by arts in which he served 
his master and made his fortune, to bring poverty, 
wretchedness, and depopulation on his country. Mine 
were under a benevolent prince, in promoting the com- 
merce, manufactures, and agriculture of his kingdom. 
Ills founder's merit was the merit of a gentleman 
raised by the arts of a court and the protection of a 
\Volsey to the eminence of a great and potent lord. 
His merit in that eminence was, by instigating a t)'rant 
to injustice, to provoke a people to rebellion. 1I- merit 
was, to awaken the sober part of the country, that the)" 



TIVO t?IGHTt?EiVTH Ct?NTL'R l," SCE,VES. 157 

usual dashing of the waves. We vere sitting yester- 
day after dinner, the two ladies and myself, very com- 
posedly, and without the least apprehension of any such 
intrusion in our snug parlor, one lady knitting, the other 
netting, anti the gentleman winding worsted, when to our 
unspeakable surprise a mob appeared bcfore the window ; 
a smart rap was heard at the door, the boys bellowed, 
and the maid announced Mr. Grcnville. Puss was un- 
fortunately let out of her box, so that the candidate, 
with all his good fricnds at his heels, was refused admit- 
tance at the grand entr3", and refcrrerl to the back door, 
as the onl), possible way of approach. 
Candidates are creatures not very- susceptible of af- 
fronts, and would rather, I suppose, climb in at the 
window, than be absolutely excluded. In a minute, the 
yard, the kitchen, and the parlor were filled. *[r. Gren- 
ville, a.dvancing toward me, shook me by the hand with 
a degree of cordiality that was extremely seducing. As 
soon as he, and as many more as could find chairs, were 
seated, he began to open the intent of his visit. I told 
him I had no vote, for which he readily gave me credit. 
I assured him I had no influence, which he was not 
equally inclined to believe, and the less, no doubt, be- 
cause blr. Ashburner, the draper, addressing himself to 
me at this moment, i,fformed me that I had a great deal. 
Supposing that I could not be possessed of such a trea- 
sure without knowing it, I ventured to affirm my first 
assertion, by saying, that if I had any I was utterly at a 
loss to imagine where it could be, or wherein it consisted. 
Thus ended the conference. Mr. Grenville squeezed me 
by the hand again, kissed the ladies, and withdrew. Hc 
kissed likewise the maid in the kitchen, and seemed 
upon the whole a most loving, kissing, kind-hearted 



66 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 
She draws her mouth till it posively resembles the 
aperture of a poor's-box, and all hcr words appear to 
slide out edgewise as it were--thus: Hozc, do Avu do, 
madam ? l'es, madam. [[iuics. 
Lad__v Steer. Very wcll, Lady Teazle ; I see you can 
" be a little scvere. 
Lady Teas. In defence of a friend it is but justice. 
But here comes Sir Peter to spoil our pleasantry. 

]zlltgt" IR PETER TEAZLE. 

.b-h" l)'t. Ladies, your most obedient.--[Aside,] Mercy 
,n me, here is the xx hole set ! a character dead at every 
word, l suppose. 
l[rs. Can. I am rejoiced you are come, Sir Peter. 
The)" have been so censorious--and Lady Teazle as bad 
S'ir Pet. That must be very distressing to you, indeed, 
Mrs. Candour. 
3Its. Cat. Oh, they will allow good qualities to no- 
bod)" : not even good nature to our friend Mrs. Pursy. 
Lad, Tca. \Vhat, the fat dowager who was at Mrs. 
Quadrille's last night ? 
.llrs. Cat. Na)', her bulk is her misfortune ; and, when 
.he takes so much pains to get rid of it, you ought not 
to reflect on her. 
Last 3, Sm'er. That's ver b- true, indeed. 
Lady Tca.. " e, I know she almost lives on acids and 
small whe.v ; laces herself b" pulleys ; and often, in the 
hottest noon in summer, you may see her on a little 
squat pony, with her hair plaited up behind like a drum- 
mer's, and puffing round the ring on a full trot. 
3Its. Can. I thank you, Lad)" Teazle, for defending her. 
,S'ir Pet, Yes, a good defence, truly, 



FROM "THE SCHOOL FOR SCA2VDAL." 67 
)l'[rs. Can. Truly, Lady Teazle is as censorious as Miss 
Sallow. 
Crab. Yes, and she is a curious being to pretend to be 
censorious--an awkward thing, without any one good 
point under the sun. 
Airs. Can. Positively you shall not be so very severe. 
Miss Sallow is a near relation of mine by marriage, and, 
as for her person, great allowance is to be made ; for, let 
me tell you, a woman labors under man), disadvantages 
who tries to pass for a girl of six-and-thirty. 
Lady Sneer. Though, surely, she is handsome still-- 
and for the weakness in her eyes, considering how much 
she reads by candlelight, it is not to be wondered at. 
Airs. Can. True, and then as to her manner ; upon my 
word I think it is particularly graceful, considering she 
never had the least education ; for you know her mother 
was a Welsh milliner, and her father a sugar-baker at 
Bristol. 
Sir l?en. Ah ] you are both of you too good-natured ! 
Sir Pet. Yes, distressingly good-natured! This their 
oxvn relation ! Mercy on me ! [Aside. 
Airs. Can. For my part, I own I cannot bear to hear a 
friend ill-spoken of. 
Sb" Pet. No, to be sure ! 
Sir Ben. Oh ! you are of a moral turn. Mrs. Candour 
and I can sit for an hour and hear Lady Stucco talk 
sentiment. 
Lady Teaw. Nay, I vow Lady Stucco is very xvell with 
the dessert after dinner; for she's just like the French 
fruit one cracks for mottoes--made up of paint and 
proverb. 
3Its. Can. Well, I will never join in ridiculing a friend ; 
and so I constantly tell my cousin Ogle, and you all 
knov what pretensions she has to be critical on beauty. 



FRO,II "TILE SCHOOL FOR SCAeVDAL." I6 9 
Lady Teas. But Sir Peter is such an enemy to scandal, 
I believe he would have it put down by parliament. 
Sir Pet. Positively, madam, if they were to consider 
the sporting with reputation of as much importance as 
poaching on manors, and pass an act for the preserva- 
tion of fame, as well as game, I believe many would 
thank them for the bill. 
Lady Sneer. Why! Sir Peter; vould you deprive us 
of our privileges ? 
Sir Pet. Ay, madam; and then no person should be 
permitted to kill characters and run down reputations 
but qualified old maids and disappointed widows. 
Lady Sneer. Go, you monster ! 
3Its. Can. But, surely, you would not be quite so 
severe on those who only report what they hear ? 
Sir Pet. Yes, madam, I would have law merchant for 
them too ; and in all cases of slander currency, whenever 
the drawer of the lie was not to be fourld, the injured 
parties should have a right to come on any of the 
indorsers. 
Crab. \Vell, for my part, I believe there never was a 
scandalous tale without some foundation. 
Lady Sneer. Come, ladies, shall we sit down to cards 
in the next room ? 

Enter SERVANT, zv]o whisers SIR PETER. 

Sir Pet. I'll be with them directly.--[Exit SERVANT.] 
I'll get away unperceived. [Aside. 
Lady Sneer. Sir Peter, you are ilot going to leave us ? 
Sir Pet. Your ladyship must excuse me; I'm called 
away by particular business. But I leave my character 
behind me. [Exit. 



THE. COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 
"An' oh ! be sure to fear the Iord alway, 
An' mind )-our duty, duly, morn an' night ! 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 
Implore His counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright !" 
But, hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; 
Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor 
To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 
Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, an' flush her check ; 
Wi' heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name, 
While Jenny hafflins  is afraid to speak ; 
Weel pleas'd the mother hears it's nae wild, worthless rake 
Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben 
A strappan youth ; he taks the mother's eye ; 
Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 
"/'he father cracks a of horses, pleughs, and kye. 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi" joy, 
But, blate  an' iaithfu', s scarce can weel behave 
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 
What makes the youth sac bashfu' an' sac grave 
Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave. 
0 happy love ! where love like this is found 
0 heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond compare 
I've paced much this weary, mortal round, 
And sage experience bids me this declare- 
"If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, 
One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 
In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale. ' 

I73 

x HadL a In, into the room. 3 Talks. 4 Bashful. 
5 Unwilling, shy. 6 Vhat ia/eft, rest. 



THE CO TTERS SA TURDA V NIGHT. 

Perhaps "Dundee's " wild warbling measures rise, 
Or plaintive " Martyrs," worthy of the name ; 
Or noble "Elgin" beets x the heavenward flame, 
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame ; 
The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise; 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page-- 
How Abram was the friend of God on high ; 
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 
With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme-- 
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 
How He, who bore in Heaven the second nalne, 
Had not on earth whereon to lay His head ; 
How His first followers and servants sped ; 
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land ; 
How he, who lone in Patmos banished, 
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's 
comlnand. 

Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, 
The saint, the father, and the husband prays : 
Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing," 
That thus they all shall meet in future days : 

x Feeds, nourishes. 



THE TRIAL B I" O0,IlB.4 T. .8 

Long before daybreak, the lists were surroun,led by 
even a larger number of Saracens than Richard had sccn 
on the preceding evening. \Vhen the first ray of the 
sun's glorious orb arose above the desert, the sonorous 
call, "To prayer, to prayer !" was poured forth by the 
Soldan himself, and answered by others, whose rank and 
zeal entitled them to act as muezzins. It was a striking 
spectacle to see them all sink to earth, for the purpose 
of repeating their devotions, with their faces turned to 
Mecca. But when they arose from the ground, the sun's 
rays,, now strengthening fast, seemed to confirm the Lord 
of Gilsland's conjecture of the night before. They were 
flashed back from many a spear-head, for the pointless 
lances of the preceding day were certainly no longer 
such. De Vaux pointed it out to his master, xho 
answered with impatience, that he had perfect confidence 
in the good faith of the Soldan ; but if Dc Vaux was 
afraid of his bulky body, he might retire. 
Soon after this the noise of timbrels was heard, at the 
sound of which the whole Saracen cavaliers threw them- 
selves from their horses, and prostrated themselves, as if 
for a second morning prayer. This was to ve an 
opportunity to the Queen, with Edith and her attendants, 
to pass from the pavilion to the gallery intended for 
them. Fifty guards of Saladin's seraglio escorted them, 
with naked sabres, whose orders were, to cut to pieces 
whomsoever, were he prince or peasant, should venture 
to gaze on the ladies as they passed, or even presume to 
raise his head until the cessation of the music shouhl 
make all men aware that the)-were lodged in their 
gallery, not to be gazed on by the curious eye. 
This superstitious observance of Oriental reverence to 
the fair sex called forth from Queen Bcrcngaria some 



THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 

criticisms very unfavorable to Saladin and his country. 
13ut their den, as the royal fair called it, being securely 
closed and guarded by their sable attendants, she vas 
under the necessity of contenting herself with seeing, 
and laying aside for the present the still more exquisite 
pleasure cf being seen. 
Meantime the sponsors of both champions vent, as 
was their duty, to see that they were duly armed, and 
prepared for combat. The Archduke of Austria was in 
no hurry to perform this part of the ceremony, having 
had rather an unusually severe debauch upon wine of 
Schiraz the preceding evening. But the Grand Mster 
of the Temple, more deeply concerned in the event of 
the combat, vas early before the tent of Conrade of 
Montserrat. To his great surprise, the attendants rcfused 
him admittance. 
" Do you not know me, ye knaves?" said the Grand 
Master in great anger. 
"\Ve do, most valiant and reverend," answered Con- 
rade's squire ; " but even 3,oz may not at present enter-- 
the Marquis is about to confess himself." 
" Confess himself!" exclaimed the Templar, in a tone 
where alarm mingled with surprise and scorn--" and to 
whom I pray thee ?" 
" My master bid me be secret," said the squire; on 
which the Grand Master pushed past him, and entered 
the tent almost by force. 
., 
The Marquis of Montserrat vas kneehng at the feet 
of the Hermit of Engaddi, and in the act of beginning 
his confession. 
" \Vhat means thi.% Marquis ?" said the Grand Master, 
"up, for shame--mr, if you must needs confess, am not I 
here ?" 



THE TRIAL B I" COMBAT. I83 
" I have confessed to you too often already," replied 
Conrade, with a pale cheek and a faltering voice. " For 
God's sake, Grand Master, begone, and let me unfold my 
conscience to this holy man." 
" In what is he holier than I am?" said the Grand 
Master.--" Hermit, prophet, madman--say, if thou darest, 
in what thou excellest me ?"  
" Bold and bad man," replied the Hermit, "know that 
I am like the latticed window, and the divine light passes 
through to avail others, though alas ! it helpeth not me. 
Thou art like the iron stanchions, which neither receive 
light themselves, nor communicate it to any one." 
" Prate not to me, but depart from this tent," said the 
Grand Master; "the Marquis shall not confess this 
morning, unless it be to me, for I part not from his side." 
" Is this yozo- pleasure ?" said the Hermit to Conrade ; 
"for think not I will obey that proud man, if you continue 
to desire my assistance." 
"Alas !" said Conrade irresolutely, "what would you 
have me say? Farewell for a whilcwe wil speak 
anoD." 
" O, procrastination !" cxc]aimcd thc Hcrmit, "thou 
art a soul-murderer !--Unhappy man, farewell; not for 
a while, but until we both shall meet--no matter where. 
And for thee," he added, turning to the Grand Master, 
" TIIEMBLE !" 
" Tremble 1" replied the Templar contemptuously, " I 
cannot if I would." 
The Hermit heard not his answer, having left the tent. 
"Come! to this gear hastily," said the Grand Master, 
"since thou wilt needs go through the foolery.--Hark 
thce--I think I know most of thy frailties by heart, so 
we may omit the detail, which may be somewhat a long 



186 

THE HIGH SCHOOL RtFMDtFR. 

bestrode by Sir Kenneth ; and the sruch-sprcchcr shook 
his head while he observed, that while the challenger 
rode around the lists in the course of the sun--that is, 
from right to left--the defender made the same circuit 
a,hhter-si,s--that is, from left to right--which is in most 
countries held ominous. 
A tcmporary altar was erected just beneath the gallery 
occupicd by the Quecn, and beside it stood the Hermit 
in the dress of his order, as a Carmelite friar. Other 
churchmen wcre also present. To this altar the chal- 
lenger and dcfcnder were successively brought forward, 
conducted by their respective sponsors. Dismounting 
before it, each knight avouched the justice of his cause 
by a solemn oath on tile Evangelists, and prayed that 
his success might be according to the truth or falsehood 
of what he then swore. They also made oath, that they 
came to do battle in knightly guise, and with the usual 
weapons, disclaiming the use of spells, charms, or magical 
devices, to incline victory to their side. The challenger 
pronounced his vow with a firm and manly voice, and a 
bold and cheerful countenance. \\'hen the ceremony 
was finished, the Scottish Knight looked at the galleD', 
and bent his head to the earth, as if in honor of those 
invisible beauties which were enclosed within; then, 
loaded with armor as he was, sprung to the saddle 
without the use of the stirrup, and made his courser 
car D" him in a succession of caracoles to his station at 
the eastern extremity of the lists. Conrade also pre- 
sented himself before the altar with boldness enough; 
but his voice, as he took the oath, sounded hollow, as if 
drowned in his helmet. The lips with which he appealed 
to Heaven to adjudge victory to the just quarrel, grew 
white as they uttered the impious mockery. As he 



THE TRIAL F CO.IA T. 
turned to remount his horse, the Grand Master ap- 
proached him closer, as if to rectify something about the 
sitting of his gorget, and whispered, "Cowar_l and fool 
recall thy senses, and do me. this battle bravely; else, 
by Heaven, shouldst thou escape him, thou escapest not 
The savage tone in which this vas whispered, perhaps 
completed the confusion of the Marquis's nerves, for he 
stumbled as he made to horse ; and though he recovered 
his feet, sprung to the saddle with his usual agility, and 
displayed his address in horsemanship as he assumed his 
position opposite to the challenger's, yet the accident 
did not escape those who were on the watch for omens, 
which might predict the fate of the day. 
The priests, after a solemn prayer that God would 
show the rightful quarrel, departed from the lists. The 
trumpets of the challenger then rung a flourish, and the 
herald-at-arms proclaimed at the eastern end of the lists, 
-" Here stands a good knight, Sir Kenneth of Scotland, 
champion for the royal King Richard of England, who 
accuseth Conrade, Marquis of Montserrat, of foul treason 
and dishonor done to the said King." 
When the words Kenneth of Scotland announced the 
name and character of the champion, hitherto scarce 
generally known, a loud and cheerful acclaim burst from 
the followers of King Richard, and hardly, notwithstand- 
ing repeated commands of silence, suffered the reply of 
the defendant to be heard. He, of course, avouched his 
innocence, and offered his body for battle. The esquires 
of the combatants now approached, and delivered to 
each his shield and lance, assisting to hang the former 
around his neck, that his two hands might remain free, 
one for the management of the bridle, the other to direct 
the lance. 



THE IIIGH SCHOOL READER. 

The shield of the Scot displayed his old bearing, the 
leopard, but with the addition of a collar and broken 
chain, in allusion to his late captivity. The shiehl of 
the Marquis bore, in reference to his title, a serrated and 
rocky" mountain. Each shook his lance aloft, as it to 
ascertain the weight and toughness of the unwieldy 
weapon, and then laid it -;n the rest. The sponsors, 
herahls, and squires, now retired to tim barriers, and the 
combatants sat opposite to each other, face to face, with 
couched lance anti closed visor, the human form so com- 
pletely enclosed, that they looked more like statues of 
molten iron than beings of flesh and blood. Tim silence 
of suspense was now general--men breathed thicker, and 
their vc W souls seemed seated in their eyes, while not a 
sound was to be heard save tim snorting and pawing of 
the good steeds, who, sensible of xxhat was about to 
happen, were impatient to dash into career. They stood 
thus for perhaps three minutes, when at a signal given 
by, the Soldan, an hundred instruments rent the air with 
their brazen clamors, and each champion striking his 
horse with the spurs, and slacking the rein, the horses 
started into full gallop, and the knights met in mid space 
with a shock like a thunderbolt. The victory wa. not in 
doubt--no, not one moment. Conrade, indeed, showed 
himself a practised warrior ; for he struck his antagoni.t 
knightly in the nidst of his shield, bearing his lance so 
straight and true, that it shiverel into splinters from the 
steel spear-bead up to tim very gauntlet. The horse of 
Sir Kenneth recoiled two or three yards and fell on his 
haunches, but the rider easily- raised him with hand and 
i'ein. But for Conrade there was no recovery. Sir 
Kenneth's lance had pierced through the shield, through 
a plated corselet of Milan steel, throngla a secret, or coat 



THE TRL.1L t1" C03It.1  189 
of linked mail, worn beneath the corselet, had wounded 
him decp in the bosom, and borne him from his saddle, 
leaving the truncheon of the lance fixcd in his wound. 
The sponsors, heralds, and Saladin himselfi descending 
from his throne, crowded around the wounded man; 
while Sir Kenneth, who had drawn his sword ere yet he 
discovcrcd his antagonist was totally helpless, now com- 
manded him to avow his guilt. The hehnet was hastily 
unclosed, and the wounded man, gazing wildly on the 
skies, replied, "What wouhl you more? God hath 
decided justly. I am guiltybut there are worse traitors 
in the camp than I.--In pity to my soul, let me have a 
COltessor " 
He revived as he uttercd these words. 
" The talismanthe powerful remedy, ro)'al brother," 
said King Richard to Saladin. 
'" The traitor," answered the Soldan, "is more fit to be 
draggcd from the lists to the gallows b)" the hecN, than 
to profit by its virtues: and some such fate is in his 
look," he added, after gazing fixedly upon the wounded 
man : " for though his wound may be cured, yct Azrael's 
seal is on the wretch's brow." 
" Nevertheless," said Richard, " I pray you do for him 
what you may, that he may at least have time for con- 
fession. Slay not soul and body E To him one half-hour 
of time may_be worth more, by ten thousand fold, than 
the life of the oldest patriarch." 
" My royal brother's wish shall be obeyed," said 
Saladin." Slaves, bear this woundcd man to our tent." 
" Do not so," said the Templar, who hal hitherto 
stood gloomily looking on in silence. " The royal Duke 
of Austria and myself will not permit this unhappy 
Chstian prince to be elivered over to the Saracens, 



THt" HIGH SCHOOL 

band's humor, and Edith blushing and growing pale 
alternately, as slowly and awkwardly she undid, with 
Longsword's assistance, the fastenings which secured the 
helmet to the gorget. 
" And what expect you from beneath this iron shell ?" 
said Richard, as the removal of the casque gave to view 
the noble countenance of Sir Kenneth, his face glowing 
with recent exertion, and not less so with present emotion. 
" What think ye of him, gallants and beauties?" said 
Richard. " Doth he resemble an Ethiopian slave, or 
doth he present the face of an obscure and nameless 
adventurer? No, by m.v good sword ! Here terminate 
his various disguises. I/e hath knelt down before you, 
unknown save by his worth; he arises, equally distin- 
guished by birth and by fortune. The adventurous 
knight, Kenneth, arises David, Earl of Huntingdon, 
Prince Royal of Scotland 
There was a general exclamation of surprise, and 
Edith dropped from her hand the helmet which she had 
just received... 
" May we know of your grace by what strange and 
happy chance this riddle has been read ?" said the Oueen 
Bcrcngaria. 
" Letters were brought to us from England," said the 
King, " in which we learned, among other unpleasant 
news, that the King (,f Scotland had seized upon three 
of our nobles, when on a pilgrimage to Saint Ninian, 
and alleged as a cause, that hi; heir being supposed to 
be fighting in the ranks of the Teutonic Knights, against 
the heathen of Borussia, was, in fact. in our camp and in 
our power; and, therefore, \\'illiam proposed to hold 
these nobles as hostages for his safety. This gave me 
the first light on the real rank of the Knight of the 



THE TRIAL t Y CO,1ItA T. 

193 

Leopard, and my suspicions were confirmed by De Vaux, 
who, on his return from Ascalon, brought back with him 
the Earl of Huntingdon's sole attendant, a thick-skulled 
slave, who had gone thirty miles to unfold to De Vaux 
a secret he should have told to me." 
" Old Strauchan must be excused," said the Lord of 
Gilsland. " He knew from experience that my heart is 
somewhat softer than if I wrote myself Plantagenet." 
"Thy heart soft? thou commodity of old iron, and 
Cumberland flint that thou art !" exclaimed the King. 
" It is we Plantagenets who boast soft and feeling hearts, 
Edith," he continued, turning to his cousin, with an ex- 
pression which called the blood into her cheek.--" Give 
me thy hand, my fair cousin, and, Prince of Scotland, 
thine." 
It is needless to follow into further particulars the 
conferences at the royal tent, or to enquire whether 
David, Earl of Huntingdon, was as mute in the presence 
of Edith Plantagenet, as when he vas bound to act under 
the character of an obscure and nameless adventurer. 
It may be well believed that he there expressed, with 
suitable earnestness, the passion to which he had so often 
before found it difficult to give words. 
The hour of noon now approached, and Saladin waited 
to receive the Princes of Christendom in a tent, which, 
but for its large size, differed little from that of the 
ordinary shelter of the common Curdman, or Arab ; yet, 
beneath its ample and sable covering, was prepared a 
banquet after the most gorgeous fashion of the East, 
extended upon carpets of the richest stuffs, with cushions 
laid for the guests. But we cannot stop to describe the 
cloth of gold and silver, the superb embroider), in Ara- 
besque, the shawls of Cashmere, and the muslins of India, 
M 



I96 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 
Earl of Huntingdon, and generously congratulated him 
upon prospects, which seemed to have interfered with 
and overclouded those which he had himself entertained. 
" But think not," said the Soldan, "thou noble youth, 
that the Prince of Scotland is more welcome to Saladin, 
than was Kenneth to the solitary Ilderim when they met 
in the desert, or the distressed Ethiop to the Hakim 
Adonbec. A brave and generous disposition like thine 
hath a value independent of condition and birth, as the 
cool draught which I here proffer thee, is as delicious 
from an earthen vessel as from a goblet of gold." 
The Earl of Huntingdon made a suitable reply, grate- 
fully acknowledging the various important sen'ices he 
had received from the generous Sohlan ; but when he had 
pledged Saladin in the bowl of sherbet which the Soldan 
had proffered to him, he could not help remarking with 
a smile, " The brave cavalier, Ilderim, knew not of the 
formation of ice, but the munificent Soldan cools his 
sherbet with snow." 
" Wouhlst thou have an Arab or a Curdman as wise as 
a Hakim ?" said the Soldan. " He who does on a dis- 
guise must make the sentiments of his heart and the 
learning of his head accord with the dress which he 
assumes. I desired to see how a brave and single-hearted 
cavalier of Frangistan would conduct himself in debate 
with such a chief as I then seemed; and I questioned 
the truth of a well-known fact, to know by what argu- 
ments thou wouldst support thy assertion." 
While they were speaking, the Archduke of Austria, 
who stood a little apart, was struck with the mention of 
iced sherbet, and took with pleasure and some bluntness 
the deep goblet, as the Earl of IIuntingdon was about to 
replace it. 



I98 

THE HIGH SCHOOL IEADER. 

all of these crimes does he now lie there, although each 
were deserving such a doom ;--but because, scarce half- 
an-hour ere he polluted our presence, as the simoom 
empoisons the atmosphere, he poniarded.his comrade 
and accomplice, Conrade of Montserrat, lest he should 
confess the infamous plots in which they had both been 
engaged." 
" How! Conrade murdered ?--And by the Grand 
Master, his sponsor and most intimate friend !" exclaimed 
Richard. " Noble Soldan, I would not doubt thee ; yet 
this must be proved ; otherwise" 
"There stands the evidence," said Saladin, pointing to 
the terrified dwarf. "Allah, who sends the fire-fly to 
illuminate the night-season, can discover secret crimes 
by the most contemptible means." 
The Soldan proceeded to tell the du'arf's story, u'hich 
amounted to this.--In his foolish curiosity, or as he 
partly confessed, with some thoughts of pilfering, Necta- 
banus had strayed into the tent of Conrade, u-hich had 
been deserted by Iris attendants, some of whom had left 
the encampment to carry the news of his defeat to his 
brother, and others were availing themselves of the means 
which Saladin had supplied for revelling. The wounded 
man slept under the influence of Saladin's wonderful 
talisman, so that the dwarf hadopportunity to pry about 
at pleasure, until he was frightened into concealment by 
the sound of a heavy step. He skulked behind a curtain, 
yet could see the motions, and hear the words of the Grand 
Master, who entered, and carefully secured the covering 
of the pavillion behind him. His victim started from 
sleep, and it would appear that he instantly suspected 
the purpose of his old associate, for it was in a tone of 
alarm that he demanded wherefore he disturbed him. 



THE TRIAL B Y C02IBA T. i99 
" I come to confess and absolve thee," answered the 
Grand Master. 
Of their further speech the terrified dwarf remembered 
little, save that Conrade implored the Grand Master not 
to break a wounded reed, and that the Templar struck 
him to the heart with a Turkish dagger, with the words 
AcciiOe hoc,--words which long afterward haunted the 
terrified imagination of the concealed witness. 
"I verified the tale," said Saladin, "by causing the 
bod)" to be examined ; and I made this unhappy being, 
whom Allah hath made the discoverer of the crime, 
repeat in your own presence the words which the mur- 
derer spoke, and you yourselves saw the effect which 
they produced upon his conscience." 
The Soldan paused, and the King of England broke 
silence :-- 
" If this be true, as I doubt not, we have witnessed a 
great act of justice, though it bore a different aspect. 
But wherefore in this presence? wherefore with thine 
own hand ?" 
" I had designed otherwise," said Saladin, "but had I 
not hastened his doom, it had been altogether averted, 
since, if I had permitted him to taste of my cup, as h 
was about to do, how could I, without incurring the 
brand of inhospitality, have done him to death as he 
deserved? Had he murdered my father, and afterward 
partaken of my food and my bowl, not a hair of his head 
could have been injured by me. But enough of him ; let 
his carcass and his memory be removed from amongst 
US." 
The body was carried away, and the marks of the 
slaughter obliterated or concealed with such ready dex- 
terity, as showed that the case was not altogether so 



zoo THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 

uncommbn, as to paralyze the assistants and officers of 
Saladin's household. 
But the Christian princes felt that the scene which 
they had beheld weighed heavily on their spirits, and 
although, at the courteous invitation of the Soldan, they 
assumed their seats at the banquet, yet it was with the 
silence of doubt and amazement. The spirits of Richard 
alone surmounted all cause for suspicion or embarrass- 
ment. Yet he, too, seemed to ruminate on some pro- 
position, as if he were desirous of making it in the most 
insinuating and acceptable manner which was possible. 
At length he drank off a large bowl of wine, and 
addressing the Soldan, dcsir, d to know whether it was 
not true that he had honored the Earl of Huntingdon 
with a personal encounter. 
Saladin answered with a smile, that he had proved his 
horse and his weapons with the heir of Scotland, as 
cavaliers are wont to do with each other when they meet 
in the desert;and modestly added that, though the 
combat was not entirely decisive, he had not, on his 
part, much reason to pride himself on the event. The 
Scot, on the other hand, disclaimed the attributed 
superiority, and wished to assign it to the Soldan. 
" Enough of honor thou hast had in the encounter," 
said Richard, "and I envy thee more for that, than for 
the smiles of Edith Plantagenet, though one of them 
might reward a bloody day's work.--But what say you, 
noble princes;is it fitting that such a royal ring of 
chivalry shouhl break up without something being done 
for future times to speak of? \Vhat is the overthrow 
and death of a traitor, to such a fair garland of honor as 
is here assembled, and which ought not to part without 
witnessing something more worthy of their regard? 



THE TRIAL B Y C03IBA T. 2oi 

How say you, princely Soldan ; what if we two should 
now, and before this fair company, decide the long-con- 
tended question for this land of Palestine, and end at 
once these tedious wars? Yonder are the lists read)-, 
nor can Pa)'nimrie ever hope a better champion than 
thou. I, unless worthier offers, will lay do**n my gaunt- 
let in behalf of Christendom, and, in all love and honor, 
we will do mortal battle for the possession of Jerusalem." 
There *ras a deep pause for the Soldan's answer. His 
cheek and brow colored highly, and it was the opinion 
of many present that he hesitated whether he should 
accept the challenge. At length he said : " Fighting for 
the Holy City against those whom we regard as idolaters, 
and worshippers of stocks and stones, and graven images, 
I might confide that .*llah would strengthen my arm ; or 
if I fell beneath the sword of the Melech Ric, I could not 
pass to Paradise b)'a more glorious death. But .*llah 
has already given Jerusalem to the true believers, and it 
were a tempting the God of the Prophet to peril, upon 
m)-own personal strength and skill, that which I hold 
securely by the superiority of my forces." 
" If not for Jerusalem, then," sai(1 Richard, in the tone 
of one who would entreat a fax-or of atl intimate friend, 
"yet, for the love of honor, let us run at least three courses 
with grinded lances." 
" Even this," said Saladin, half smiling at Cour de 
Lion's affectionate earnestness for the combat, "even this 
I may not lawfully do. The Master places the shepherd 
over the flock, not for the shepherd's own sake, but for 
the sake of the sheep. Had I a son to hold the sceptre 
when I fell, I might have had the liberty, as I have the 
xill, to brave this bold encounter ; but )-our own Scripture 
sayeth, that when the herdsman is smitten, the sheep are 
scattered." 



-',o2 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 

" Thou hast had all the fortune," said Richard, turning 
to the Earl of Huntingdon with a sigh. " I would have 
given the best )-ear of my life for that one half-hour 
beside the Diamond of the Desert !" 
The chivalrous extravagance of Richard awakened the 
spirits of the assembly, and when at length they arose to 
depart, Saladin advanced and took Cceur de Lion by the 
hand. 
'" Noble King of England," he said, "we now part, never 
to meet again. That )-our leaue is dissolved, no more 
to be reunited, and that )-our native forces are far too 
few to enable you to prosecute your enterprise, is as well 
knoxxn to me as to )-ourself. I may not yield you up 
that Jerusalem which you so much desire to hold. It is 
to us, as to you, a Holy City. But whatever other terms 
Richard demands of Saladin, shall be as willingly yielded 
as yonder fountain )-ields its waters. Ay, and the same 
should be as frankly afforded b)- Saladin, if Richard stood 
in the desert with but two archers in his train !" 

XXXI. TO A HIGHLAND GIIL. 
(AT INVERSNE'DE, UPON" LOCH LOMON"D. } 

".VILLIAM "','OR D$ WORTH. -- 1770-- 18.o. 
SWEET Highland girl, a very shower 
Of beauty is thy earthly dower ! 
Twice seven consenting years have shed 
Their utmost bounty on thy head : 
And these gray rocks ; this household lawn ; 
These trees, a veil just half withdrawn ; 



TO A HIGHLAND GIRL. 

This fall of water, that doth make 
A murmur near the silent lake ; 
This little bay, a quiet road 
That holds in shelter thy abode 
In truth, together do ye seem 
Like something fashion'd in a dream ; 
Such forms as from their covert peep 
When earthly cares are laid asleep ! 
Yet, dream and vision as thou art, 
I bless thee with a human heart : 
God shield thee to thy latest years ! 
Thee neither know I nor thy peers ; 
And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears. 

203 

With earnest feeling I shall pray 
For thee when I am far away : 
For never saw I mien, or face, 
In which more plainly I could trace 
Benignity and home-bred sense 
Ripening in perfect innocence. 
Here scatter'd like a random seed, 
Remote from men, thou dost not need 
The embarrass'd look of shy distress, 
And maidenly shamefacedness : 
Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear 
The freedom of a mountaineer : 
A face with gladness overspread ! 
Soft smiles, by human kindness bred ! 
And seemliness complete, that Sways 
Thy courtesies, about thee plays ; 
With no restraint, but such as springs 
From quick and eager visitings 
Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach 
Of thy few words of English speech : 
A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strife 
That gives thy gestures grace and life ! 



"O4 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 

So have I, not unmov'd in mind, 
Seen birds of tempest-loving kind, 
Thus beating up against the wind. 
What hand but would a garland cull 
For thee who art so beautiful ? 
(') happy pleasure ! here to dwell 
Beside thee in some heathy dell ; 
Adopt your homely ways, and dress, 
A shepherd, thou a shepherdess ! 
But I could frame a wish for thee 
M)re like a grave reality: 
Thou art to me but as a wave 
Of the wild sea ; and I would have 
Some claim upon thee, if I could, 
Though hut of COlllnlon neighborhood. 
What joy to hear thee, and to see [ 
Thy elder brother I would be, 
Thy father, anything to thee ! 
Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace 
Hath led me to this lonely place. 
Joy have I had ; and going hence 
I bear away my recompense. 
In spots like these it is we prize 
Our memory, feel that she hath eves : 
Then, why should I be loth to stir ? 
I feel this place was made for her ; 
"|'o give new pleasure like the past, 
Continued long as life shall last. 
Nor aln I loth, though plcas'd at heart, 
Sweet Highland girl ! from thee to part ; 
For I, methinks, till I grow old, 
As fair before lne shall behold, 
3.s I do now. the cabin small, 
The lake, the bay, the waterfall ; 
And thee, the spirit of them all ! 



2o6 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 

With what a joy nay lofty gratulation 
Unaw'd I sang, amid a slavish band ; 
And when to whelm the disenchanted nation, 
Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand. 
The Monarchs march'd in evil day, 
And Britain join'd the dire array, 
Though dear her shores and circling ocean, 
Though many friendships, many youthful loves, 
Iiad swoll'n the patriot emotion, 
And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and groves 
Yet still nay voice, unalter'd, sang defeat 
To all that brav'd the tyrant-quelling lance, 
And shame too long delay'd and vain retreat ! 
For ne'er, O Liberty ! with partial ailn 
I dimln'd thy light or daml;d thy holy flame ; 
1;ut bless'd the pans of deliver'd France, 
And hung my head and wept at Britain's name. 

Ill. 

" And what," I said, " though Blasphemy's loud scream 
With that sweet music of deliverance strove ! 
Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove 
A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's dream ! 
h e Storms, that round the dawning east assembled, 
The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light !" 
And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled, 
The dissonance ceas'd, and all seem'd calm and bright ; 
When France her front deep-scarr'd and gory 
Conceal'd with clustering wreaths of glory ; 
When, insupportably advancing, 
Her arm made mockery of the warrior's tramp, 
While, timid looks of fury glancing, 
Domestic treason, crush'd beneath her fatal stamp, 
Writh'd like a wounded dragon in his gore : 



FRANCE : AN ODE. 207 

Then I reproach'd my fears that would not flee ; 
' And soon," I said, " shall Wisdom teach her lore 
In the low huts of them that toil and groan ! 
And, conquering by her happiness alone, 
Shall France compel the nations to be free, 
Till Love and Joy look round, and call the earth their own." 

IV. 

Forgive me, Freedom ! O forgive those dreams ! 
I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament, 
From bleak Helvetia's icy cavern sent,-- 
I hear thy groans upon her blood-stain'd streams ! 
Heroes, that for your peaceful country perish'd, 
And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snows 
With bleeding wounds, forgive me, that I cherish'd 
One thought that ever bless'd your cruel foes ! 
To scatter rage, and traitorous guilt, 
Where Peace her jealous home had built ; 
A patriot-race to disinherit 
Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear, 
And with inexpiable spirit 
To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer,-- 
O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind, 
And patriot only in pernicious toils, 
Are these thy boasts, champion of human kind ? 
To mix with kings in the low lust of sway, 
Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey ; 
To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils 
From freemen torn ; to tempt and to betray ? 

The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain, 
Slaves by their own compulsion ! In mad game 
They burst their manacles and wear the name 
Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain ! 



208 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 

O I.iberty ! with profitless endeavor 
tlave I pursued thee, many a weary hour ; 
But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor ever 
l)idst breathe thy soul in fol:has of human power. 
Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee 
(Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee), 
Alike from l'riestcraft's hal'py minions, 
And factious lllasl,hemy's obscener slaves, 
Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions, 
The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves 
And there I felt thee !--on that sea-cliff's verge, 
Whose pines, scarce travell'd by the breeze abo e. 
Had nmde one murmur with the distant surge ! 
Vcs, while I stood and gaz'd, nay temples bare, 
And shot my being through earth, sea, and air, 
l'ossessing all things with intensest love, 
O Liberty ! my spirit felt thee there. 

XXXIII. COMPLAINT AVID REPROOF. 

COLERIDGE. 

How seldom, friend ! a good great man inherits 
Honor or wealth, with all his worth and pains ! 
It sounds like stories from the land of spirits, 
If any nmn obtain that which he merits, 
Or any merit that which he obtains. 

I1. 

For shame, dear friend ! renounce this canting strain 
What wouldst thou have a good great man obtain ? 



THE IVELL OF ST. KEYNE. 

Place--titlessalary--a gilded chain-- 
Or throne of corses which his sword hath slain  
Greatness and goodness are not means but ends ! 
Hath he not always treasures, ahvays friends, 
The good great man ?---three treasures,wlove, and light, 
And calm thoughts, regular as infant's breath ;- 
And three firm friends, more sure than day and night,- 
Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death. 

209 

XXXIV. THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE. 

ROBERT SOUTHEY.--I774-I843. 
A WELL there is in the west country, 
And a clearer one never was seen ; 
There is not a wife in the west country 
But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne. 
An oak and an elm-tree stand beside, 
And behind doth an ash-tree grow, 
And a willow from the bank above 
Droops to the water below. 
A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne ; 
Joyfully he drew nigh ; 
For from cock-crow he had been travelling, 
And there was not a cloud in the sky. 
He drank of the water so cool and clear, 
For thirsty and hot was he ; 
And he sat down upon the bank 
Under the willow-tree. 
There came a man from the house hard by, 
At the well to fill his pail ; 
N 



THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 

On the well-side he rested it, 
And he bade the stranger hail. 

"Now, art thou a bachelor, stranger ?" quoth he ; 
" For, an if thou hast a wife, 
The happiest draught thou hast drank this day 
That ever thou didst in thy life. 

" Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast, 
Ever here in Cornwall been ? 
For, an if she have, I'll venture my life 
She has drank of the Well of St. Keyne." 

" I have left a good woman who never was here," 
The stranger he made reply ; 
"But that my draught should be the better for that, 
I pray you answer me why." 

"St. Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, " many a time 
I rank of this cr3"stal well ; 
And, before the angel summon'd her, 
She laid on the water a spell,-- 

" If the husband of this gifted well 
Shall drink before his wife, 
A happy man thenceforth is he, 
For he shall be master for life ; 

" But if the wife should drink of it first, 
God help the husband then !" 
The stranger stoop'd to the Well of St. Keyne, 
And drank of the water again. 

" You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes ? "' 
He to the Cornish-man said ; 
]3ut the Cornish-man smiled as the stranger spake, 
And sheepishly shook his head :-- 



" I hasten'd, as soon as the wedding was done, 
And left nay wife in the porch ; 
But i' faith she had been wiser than me, 
For she took a bottle to church." 

XXXV. THE ISLES OF GREECE. 

LORD B'IRON.--I788-I824. 
THE isles of Greece ! the isles of Greece ! , ., 
Where burning Sal,pho lov'd and sung 
X, here grew the arts of war and peace, 
Where l)elos rose, and Phoebus sprung! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet, 
But all, except their sun, is set. 
The Scian and the Teian muse, 
The hero's harp, the lover's lute, 
Have found the fame your shores refuse : 
Their place of birth alone is mute 
To sounds which echo further west 
Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest." 
The mountains look on Marathon-- 
And Marathon looks on the sea ; 
And musing there an hour alone, 
I dream'd that Greece might still be free; 
For standin on the Persians' grave, 
I could not deem myself a slave. 
A king sate on the rocky brow 
Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ; 
And ships, by thousands, lay below, 
And men in nations ;--all were his ! 



THE ISLES OF GREECE. 

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet ; 
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone ? 
Of two such lessons, why forget 
The nobler and the manlier one ? 
You have the letters Cadmus gave-- 
Think ye he meant them for a slave ? 

213 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
We will not think of themes like these '. 
It made Anacreon's song divine : 
He served--but served Polycrates-- 
A tyrant ; but our masters then 
Were still, at least, our countrymen. 

The tyrant of the Chersonese 
Was freedom's best and bravest friend : 
2"hat tyrant was Miltiades ! 
Oh ! that the present hour would lend 
Another despot of the kind ! 
Such chains as his were sure to bind. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, 
Exists the remnant of a line 
Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, 
The Heracleidan blood might own. 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks-- 
They have a king who buys and sells : 
In native swords, and native ranks, 
The only hope of courage dwells ; 
But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, 
Would break your shield, however broad. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
Our virgins dance beneath the shade-- 



DEAR HARP OF All" COU2VTR 1: 

Think, when home returning, 
Bright we've seen it burning, 
O, thus remember me ! 
Oft as summer closes, 
When thine eye reposes 
On its lingering roses, 
Once so lov'd by thee, 
Think of her who wove them, 
Her who made thee love tb_em, 
O, then remember me t 

When, around thee dying, 
Autumn leaves are lying, 
O, then remember me ; 
And, at night, when gaziIg 
On the gay hearth blazing, 
O, still remember me i 
Then, should music, steahpg 
All the soul of feeling, 
To thy heart appealing, 
[)raw one tear from thee 
Then let memory bring thee 
Strains I used to sing thee,- 
O, then remember me . 

XXXVII. DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY. 

MOORE. 

DEAR Harp of nay Country ! in darkr.ess I found thee, 
The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long, 
When proudly, nay own Island Harp, I unbound thee, 
And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song ! 



THE GLOFE AND THE LIONS. 217 

XXXIX. ON A LOCK OF MILTON'S HAIR. 

LEIGH HUNT.--X784-X859. 
IT lies before me there, and my own breath 
Stirs its thin outer threads, as though beside 
The living head I stood in honor'd pride, 
Talking of lovely things that conquer death. 
Perhaps he press'd it once, or underneath 
Ran his fine fingers, when he leant, blank-ey'd, 
And saw, in fancy, Adam and his bride 
With their rich locks, or his own Delphic wreath. 
There seems a love in hair, though it be dead. 
It is the gentlest, yet the strongest thread 
Of our frail plant,--a blossom from the tree 
Surviving the proud trunk ;--as though it said 
Patience and gentleness is power ; in me 
Behold affectionate eternity. 

XL. THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS. 

LEIGH HUNT. 
KING FRANCIS was a hearty king, and lov'd a royal sport, 
And one day, as his lions strove, sat looking on the court : 
The nobles fill'd the benches round, the ladies by their side, 
And 'mongst them Count de Lorge, with one he hoped to make 
his bride ; 
And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, 
Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below. 

Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing jaws ; 
They bit, they glared, gave blows like behms, a wind went with 
their paws ; 



o TH HIGH SCHOOL RiADiR. 
Wherever he dream under movntain or stream 
The Spirit he loves remains ; 
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, 
Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 

III. 

The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes, 
And his burning plumes outspread, 
l.eaps 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. 
And, when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, 
Its ardor 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 airy 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 
13y 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, 



THE CLOUD. 

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 pav'd with the moon and these. 

Vo 
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-like 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, ire, and snow, 
When the Powers of the air are chain'd to nay chair, 
Is the million-color'd bow ; 
The Sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, 
While the moist Earth was laughing below. 

Vl. 

! am the daughter of Earth and Water, 
And the nursling 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 pavilion of heaven is bare, 
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams 
Build up the blue dome of air, 
I silently laugh at nay own cenotaph,- 
And out of the caverns of rain, 
Iike a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, 
I arise and unbuild it again. 



POII'ER A.VD DAA'GER OF THE C.ESAAS. -_2 5 

magistrates, the robber captain rose from less to more, 
until he had formed a little army, equal to the task of 
assaulting fortified cities. In this stage of his adventures 
he encountered and defeated several of the imperial 
officers commanding large detachments of troops; and 
at length grew of consequence sufficient to draw upon 
himself the emperor's eye, and the honor of his personal 
displeasure. In high wrath and disdain at the insults 
offered to his eagles by this fugitive slave, Commodus 
fulminated against him such an edict as left him no hope 
of much longer escaping with impunit)'. 
Public vengeance was now avakened; the imperial 
troops were marching from evers" quarter upon the same 
centre; and the slave became sensible that in a very 
short space of time he must be sur'ounded and dcstros"ed. 
In this desperate situation he took a desperate resolution : 
he assembled his troops, laid before them his plan, con- 
certed the various steps for carrying it into effect, and 
then dismissed them as independent wanderers. So ends 
the first chapter of the tale. 
The next opens in the passes of the .Alps, whither, b.v 
various routes, of seven or eight hundred miles in extent, 
these men had threaded their way in manifold disguises, 
through the vcr)" midst of the emperor's camps. ,hccord- 
ing to this man's gigantic enterprise, in which the means 
were as audacious as the purpose, the conspirators xvere 
to rendezvous, and first to recognize each other, at the 
gates of Rome. From the Danube to the ]-iber did this 
band of robbers severalls" pursue their perilous routes 
through all the difficulties of the road and the jealousies 
of thb military ttations, sustained by the mere thirst of 
vengeance--vengeance against that mighty foe whom 
they knew only by his proclamations against themselves, 
o 



UiV THO UGH TF UL VE. S. 

violent opposition can be better illustrated than in this 
tale of Herodian. Whilst the emperor's mighty arms 
were stretched out to arrest: some potentate in the heart 
of Asia, a poor slave is silently and stealthily creeping 
round the base of the Alps, with the purpose of vinning 
his way as a murderer to the imperial bed-chamber; 
Cesar is watching some potent rebel of the Orient, at a 
distance of two thousand leagues, and he overlooks the 
dagger which is within three stealthy steps, and one 
tiger's leap, of his own heart. All the heights and the 
depths which belong to man's frailty, all the contrasts of 
glory and meanness, the extremities of what is highest 
and !.owest in human casualties, meeting in the station of 
th Roman Cesar Semper Augustus--have combined to 
call him into high marble relief, and to make him the 
most interesting 2tudy of all whom history has era- 
blazoned with colors of fire and blood, or has crowned 
most lavishly with diadems of cyprus and laurel. 

XLV. UNTHOUGHTFULNESS. 

DR. ARNOLD.--I795-I842. 
A Lecture deliz.ered in l?ttgby Chapel. 
THE state of spiritual folly is, I suppose, one of the 
most universal evils in the world. For the number of 
those who are naturally foolish is exceedingly great ; of 
those, I mean, who understand no xvorldly thing well ; of 
those who are careless about everything, carried about 
by every breath of opinion, without knowledge, and 
without principle. But the term spi,'itual folly includes, 



THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 

unhappily, a great many more than these; it takes in 
not those only who are in the common sense of the term 
foolish, but a great many who are in the common sense 
of the term clever, and many who are even in the com- 
mon sense of the terms, prudent, sensible, thoughtful, and 
wise. It is but too evident that some of the ablest men 
who have ever lived upon earth, have been in no less a 
degree spiritually fools. And thus, it is not without 
much truth that Christian writers have dwelt upon the 
insufficiency of worldly wisdom, and have warned their 
readers to beware, lest, while professing themselves to be 
wise, they should be accounted as fools in the sight of 
God. 
But the opposite to this notion, that those who are, as 
it werc, fools in worhlly mattcrs are wise before God,-- 
although this also is true in a certain sense, and under 
certain peculiar circumstances, yet taken generally, it is 
the very reverse of truth ; and the careless and incautious 
language which has been often used on this subject, has 
been extremely mischievous. On the contrary, he who 
is foolish in worldly matters is likely also to be, and 
most commonly is, no less foolish in the things of God. 
And the opposite belief has arisen mainly from that 
strange confusion between ignorance and innocence, with 
which many ignorant persons seem to solace themselves. 
Whereas, if you takc away a man's knowledge, you do 
not bring him to the state of an infant, but to that of a 
brute ; and of one of the most mischievous and malignant 
of the brute creation. For you do not lessen or weaken 
the man's body by lowering his mind; he still retains 
his strength and his passions, the passions leading to 
self-indulgencc, the strength which enables him to feed 
thcm by continued gratification. Hc will not think, it is 



3o 

THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 

rising upwards. It may, indeed, stop at a point short of 
the highest, it may learn to love earthly excellence, and 
rest there contented, and seek for nothing more perfect ; 
but that, at any rate, is a future and merely contingent 
evil. It is better to lovz earthly excellence than earthly 
folly ; it is far better in itself, and it is, by many degrees, 
nearer to the Kingdom of God. 
There is another case, however, which I cannot but 
think is more frequent now than formerly ; and if it is 
so, it may be worth while to direct our attention to 
it. Common idleness and absolute ignorance are not 
what I wish to speak of now, but a character advanced 
above these; a character which does not neglect its 
school-lessons, but really attains to considerable profi- 
ciency in them ; a character at once reg-ular and amiable, 
abstaining from evil, and for evil in its low and grosser 
forms having a real abhorrence. What, then, you will 
say, is wanting here? I will tell you what seems to be 
warting--a spirit of manly, and much more of Christian, 
thoughtfulness. There is quickness ad cleverness; 
much pleasure, perhaps, in distinction, but little in im- 
provement ; there is no desire of knowledge for its own 
sake, whether human or divine. There is, therefore, but 
little power of combining and digesting what is read; 
and, consequently, what is read passes away, and takes 
no root in the mind. This same character shows itself 
in matters of conduct ; it will adopt, without scruple, the 
most foolish, commonplace notions of boys, about what 
is right and wrong; it will not, and cannot, from the 
lightness of its mind, concern itself seriously about what 
is evil in the conduct of others, because it takes no 
regular care of its mvn, with reference to pleasing God ; 
it will not do anything low or wicked, but it will some- 



232 

THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 

but the time and interest which remain over when the 
body has had its enjoyment, and the mind desires its 
share, this has been already wasted and exhausted upon 
things utterly unprofitable: so that the mind goes to its 
work hurriedly and languidly, and feels it to be no more 
than a burden. The mere lessons may be learnt from a 
sense of duty; but that freshness of power which in 
young persons of ability would fasten eagerly upon some 
one portion or other of the wide field of knowledge, and 
there expatiate, drinking in health and strength to the 
mind, as surely as the natural exercise of the body gives 
to it bodily vigor,--that is tired prematurely, pen-erted, 
and corrupted; and all the knowledge which else it 
might so covet, it now seems a wearying effort to retain. 
Great and grievous as is the evil, it is peculiarly hard 
to find the remedy for it. If the books to which I have 
been alluding were books of downright wickedness, we 
might destroy them wherever we found them ; we might 
forbid their open circulation ; we might conjure you to 
shun them as you xvould any other clear sin, whether of 
word or deed. But the), are not wicked books for the 
most part; they are of that class which cannot be 
actually prohibited ; nor can it be pretended that there 
is a sin in reading them. They are not the more wicked 
for being published so cheap, and at regular intervals; 
but yet these two circumstances make them so peculiarly 
injurious All that can be done is to point out the 
evil ; that it is real and serious I am very sure, and its 
defects are most deplorable on the minds of the fairest 
promise ; but the remedy for it rests with yourselves, or 
rather with each of you individually, so far as he is him- 
self concerned. That an unnatural and constant excite- 
ment of the mind is most injurious, there is no doubt; 



THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 

Still, for all slips of hers, 
One of Eve's family, w 
Wipe those poor lips of hers 
Oozing so clammily. 

235 

Loop up her tresses 
- Escaped from the comb,- 
Her fair auburn tresses ; 
Whilst wonderment guesses 
Where was her home ? 

Who was her father ? 
Who was her mother ? 
Had she a sister ? 
Had she a brother ? 
Or was there a dearer one 
Still, and a nearer one 
Yet, than all other ? 

Alas I for the rarity 
Of Christian charity 
Under the sun ! 
Oh ! it was pitiful ! 
Near a whole city full, 
Home she had none. 

Sisterly, brotherly, 
Fatherly, motherly 
Feelings had changed : 
Love, by harsh evidence, 
Thrown from its eminence 
Even God's providence 
Seeming estranged. 

Where the lamps quiver 
So far in the river, 



PARENTAL ODE TO 

Dreadfully staring 
Through muddy impurity, 
As when with the daring 
Last look of despairing 
Fix'd on futurity. 

Perishing gloomily, 
Spurr'd by contumely, 
Cord inhumanity, 
Burning insanity, 
Into her rest.- 
Cross her hands humbly, 
As if praying dumbly, . 
Over her breast ! 

Owning her weakness, 
Her evil behavior, 
And leaving, with meekness, 
Her sins to her Saviour ! 

237 

XLVII. A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SOS, 

AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE .MO.NTHS. 

THOMAS I-I OOD. 

Trot happy, happy elfl 
(But stop,--first let me kiss away that tear)-- 
Thou tiny image of myself! 
(My love, he's poking peas into his ear !) 
Thou merry, laughing sprite ! 
With spirits feather-light, 
Untouch'd by sorrow, and unsoird by sin- 
(Good heavens ! the child is swallowing a pin '.) 



238 TH HIGH SCHOOL 

Thou little tricksy Puck ! 
With antic toys so funnily bestuck, 
I.ight as the singing bird that wings the air-- 
( l'he door I the door ! he'll tumble down the stair 
Thou darling of thy sire ! 
(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore a-fire !) 
Thou imp of mirth and joy I 
In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, 
Thou idol of thy parents--(Drat the boy ! 
There goes nay ink !) 

Thou cherub--but of earth ; 
Fit playfellow for Fays, by naoonlight pale, 
In harmless sport and mirth, 
(That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail !) 
Thou human humming-bee extracting honey 
From ev'ry blossom in the world that blows, 
Singing in Youth's Elysium ever sunny, 
(Another tumble !that's his precious nose !) 
Thy father's pride and hope ! 
(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rol)e!) 
With pure heart newly stamp'd from Nature's mint-- 
(Where did he learn that squint ?) 

Thou young domestic dove ! 
(He'll have that jug off with another shove !) 
Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest ! 
(Are those torn clothes his best ?) 
Little epitome of man ! 
(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan !) 
Touch'd with the beauteous tints of dawning life-- 
(Hc's got a knife t) 

Thou enviable being! 
No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, 
Play on, play on, 
My elfin John ! 



AIE TAPH YSICS. 

Toss the light ball---bestride the stick-- 
(I knew so many cakes would make him sickl) 
With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, 
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, 
With many a lamb-like frisk, 
(He's Cot the scissors, snipping at your gown 

Thou pretty opening rose ! 
(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose !) 
Balmy, and breathing music like the South, 
(He really brings my heart into nay mouth !) 
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,-- 
(I wish that window had an iron bar ! ) 
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,-- 
(I tell you what, my love, 
I cannot write, unless he's sent above !) 

239 

XLVIII. IIETAPHYSICS. 

THOMAS CHANDLER HALIBURTON.--X796-X86S. 
From TRAITS OF ,,MERICAN IL'MOR. 
OLD Doctor Sobersides, the minister of Pumpkinville, 
where I lived in my youth, was one of the metaphysical 
divines of the old ,school, and could cavil upon the ninth 
part of a hair about entities and quiddities, nominalism 
and realism, free-will and necessity, with which sort of 
learning he used to stuff his sermons and astound his 
learned hearers, the bumpkins. They never doubted 
that it was all true, but were apt to say with the old 
woman in Molire: " He speaks so well that I don't 
understand him a bit." 



240 

THE HIGH .CHOOL READER. 

I remember a conversation that happened at my 
grandfather's, in which the Doctor had some difficult)" in 
making his metaphysics all "as clear as preaching." 
There was my grandfather; Uncle Tim, who was the 
greatest hand at raising onions in our part of the country, 
but "not knowing metaphysics, had no notion of the true 
reason of his not being sad"; my Aunt Judy Keturah 
Titterwell, who could knit stockings "like all possest," 
but could not syllogise ; Malachi Muggs. our hired man 
that drove the oxen; and Isaac Thrasher, the district 
schoolmaster, who had dropped in to warm his fingers 
and get a drink of cider. Something was under discus- 
sion, and my grandfather could make nothing of it ; but 
the Doctor said it was "metaphysically true." 
" Pray, Doctor," said Uncle Tim, " tell me something 
about metaphysics ; I have often heard of that science, 
but never for my life could find out what it was." 
" Metaphysics," said tile Doctor, "is the science of ab- 
straction." 
" I'm no wiser for that explanation," said Uncle Tim. 
" It treats," said the Doctor, "of matters most profound 
and sublime, a little difficult perhaps for a common in- 
tellect or an unschooled capacity to fathom, but not the 
less important on that account, to all living beings." 
"\Vhat does it teach ?" asked the Schoolmaster. 
" It is not applied so much to the operation of teach- 
ing," answered the Doctor, "as to that of inquiring ; and 
the chief inquiry." is, whether things are, or xx hether the)- 
are not." 
" I don't understand the question," said Uncle Tim, 
taking the pipe out of his mouth. 
" For example, whether this earth on which we tread," 
said the Doctor, giving a heavy stamp on the floor, and 



z42 THE HIGH SCtlOOL I?EtDER. 
phorically, meaning the profoundest cogitation and re- 
search into the nature of things. That is the way in 
which we may ascertain whether things are, or whether 
they are not." 
" But if a man can't believe his eyes," said Uncle Tim, 
"what signifies talking about it ?" 
"Our eyes," said the Doctor, "are nothing at all but 
the inlets of sensation, and when we see a thing, all we 
are aware of is, that we have a sensation of it : we are 
not aware that the thing exists. We are sure of nothing 
that we see with our eyes." 
" Not without spectacles," said Aunt Judy. 
" Plato, for instance, maintains that the sensation of 
any object is produced by a perpetual succession of 
copies, images, or counterfeits, streaming off from the 
object to the organ of sensation. Descartes, too, has 
explained the matter upon the principle of whirligigs." 
" But does the world exist ?" asked the Schoolmaster. 
" A good deal may be aid on both sides," replied the 
Doctor, "though the ablest heads are for non-existence." 
" In common cases," said Uncle Tim, "those who utter 
nonsense are considered blockheads." 
" But h metaphysics," said the Doctor, " the case is 
different." 
"Now all this is hocus-pocus to me," said Aunt Judy, 
suspending her knitting-work, and scratching her forehead 
with one of the needles, " I don't understand a bit more 
of the business than I did at first." 
" I'll be bound there is many a learned professor," said 
Uncle Tim, "could say the same after spinning a long 
yarn of metaphysics." 
The Doctor did not admire this gibe at his favorite 
science. 



.lIE T.4 PH 12ICS. 243 
"That is as the case may be," said he ; " this thing or 
that thing may be dubious, but what then ? Doubt is 
the beginning of wisdom." 
" No doubt of that," said my randfather, beginning to 
poke the fire, "and when a man has got through his 
doubting, what does he begin to build up in the meta- 
physical way ?" 
"\Vhy, he begins by taking something for granted," 
said the Doctor. 
" But is that a sure vay of going to work ?" 
"'Tis the only thing he can do," replied the Doctor, 
after a pause, and rubbing his forehead as if he was not 
altogether satisfied that his foundation was a solid one. 
My grandfather might have posed him with another 
question, but he poked the fire and let him go on. 
" Metaphysics, to speak exactly" 
"Ah," interrupted the Schoolmaster, "bring it down to 
vulgar fractions, and then we shall understand it." 
" 'Tis the consideration of immateriality, or the mere 
spirit and essence of things." 
"Come, come," said Aunt Judy, taking a pinch of 
snuff, "now I see into it." 
"Thus, man is considered, not in his corporeality, but 
in his essence or capability of being ; for a man, meta- 
physically, or to metaphysical purposes, hath two natures, 
that of spirituality, and that of corporeality, which may 
be considered separate." 
"What man ?" asked Uncle Tim. 
"Why, any man ; Malachi there, for example ; I may 
consider him as Malachi spiritual, or Malachi corporeal." 
" That is true," said Malachi, "for when I was in the 
militia they made me a sixteenth corporal, and I carried 
grog to the drummer." 



244 TH HIGH SCHOOL RADR. 
"That is another affair," said the Doctor in continua- 
tion ; " we speak of man in his essence ; we speak, also, 
of the essence of locality, the essence of duration--" 
"And essence of peppermint," said Aunt Judy. 
" Pooh !" said the Doctor, "the essence I mean is quite 
a different essence." 
" Something too fine to be dribbled through the worm 
of a still," said my grandfather. 
'" Then I am all in the dark again," rejoined Aunt 
Judy. 
- 13)- the spirit and essence of things I mean things in 
the abstract." 
" And xxhat becomes of a thing when it goes into the 
abstract ?" asked Uncle Tim. 
" \Vhy, it becomes an abstraction." 
" There we are again," said Uncle Tim ; "but what on 
earth is an abstraction ?" 
" It is a thing that has no matter: that is, it cannot be 
fclt, sccn, hcard, smclt, or tasted ; it has no substance or 
solidity ; it is neither large nor small, hot nor cold, long 
nor short." 
"' Then what is tim long and short of it?" asked the 
Schoolmaster. 
'" Abstraction," replied the DoctorY 
"Suppose, for instance," said Malachi, " that I had a 
pitchfork--" 
"Ay," said the Doctor, "consider a pitchfork in general ; 
that is, neither this one nor that one, nor any particular 
one, but a pitchfork or pitchforks divested of their ma- 
tcriality--these are things in the abstract." 
"They are things in the hay-mow," said Malachi. 
" Pray," said Uncle Tim, "have there been many such 
things discovered ?" 



A[E TAPHYSICS. *-4  

" Discovered !" returned the Doctor, "why, all things, 
whether in heaven, or upon the earth, or in the waters 
under the earth, whether small or great, visible or in- 
visible, animate or inanimate ; whether the eye can see, 
or the ear can hear, or the nose can smell, or the fingers 
touch; finally, whatever exists or is imaginable in the 
nature of things, past, present, or to come, all may be 
abstractions." 
" Indeed !" said Uncle Tim, "pray, what do you make 
of the abstraction of a red cow ?" 
" A red cow,"said the Doctor, "considered metaphysi- 
cally or as an abstraction, is an animal possessing neither 
hide nor horns, bones nor flesh, but is the mere type, 
eidolon, and fantastical semblance of these parts of a 
quadruped. It has a shape without any substance, and 
no color at all, for its redness is the mere counterfeit or 
imagination of such. As it lacks the positive, so is it 
also deficient in the accidental properties-of all the 
animals in its tribe, for it has no locomotion, stability, or 
endurance, neither goes to pasture, gives milk, chews the 
cud, nor performs any other function of the horned 
beast, but is a mere creation of the brain, begotten by a 
freak of the fancy and nourished by a conceit of the 
imagination." 
" Pshaw!" exclaimed Aunt Judy. " All the meta- 
physics under the sun wouldn't make a pound of butter !" 
"That's a fact," said Uncle Tim. 

7"here is no great and no small 
7"0 the Soul that maketh all: 
And where it comellt, all lhittffs are :- 
And it cometh ez,eo',here. 
EMERSON. 



HORATIUS. 

47 

That in so brief--so very brief a space, 
He, who in love both clouds and cheers our life, 
Would lay on you, so full of light, joy, grace," 
The darker, sadder duties of the wife,-- 
Doubts, fears, and frequent toil, and constant care 
For this poor frame, by sickness sore bested ; 
The daily tendance on the fractious chair, 
The nightly vigil by the feverish bed. 

Yet not unwelcom'd doth this morn arise, 
Though with more gladsome beams it might have shone : 
Strength of these weak hands, light of these dim eyes, 
In sickness, as in health,--bless you, My Own ! 

LI. HORATIUS.* 

A LAY MADE ABOUT THE YEkR OF THE CITY CCCLX. 

"LORD .\ I ACAULAY. --18oo- x859. 

LARS Porsena of Clusium by the Nine Gods he swore 
That the great house of Tarquin should suffer wrong no more. 
By the Nine Gods he swore it, and named a trysting day, 
And bade his messengers ride forth, east and west and south 
To summon his array. [and north, 

East and west and south and north the messengers ride fast, 
And tower and town and "ottage have heard the trumpet's blast. 
Shame on the false Etruscan who lingers in his home, 
When Porsena of Clusium is on the march for Rome. 

For the sake of space a change has been made from the usual form of the 
poer 



HOR.,4 TIUS. o.49 
Go, and return in glory to Clusium's royal dome ; 
And hang round Nurscia's altars the golden shields of Rome." 
And now hath every city sent up her tale of men : 
The foot are fourscore thousand, the horse are thousands ten. 
Before the gates of Sutrium is met the great array. 
A proud man was Lars Porsena upon the trysting day. 
For all the Etruscan armies were ranged beneath his eye, 
And many a banish'd Roman, and many a stout ally ; 
And with a mighty following to join the muster came 
The Tusculan Mamilius, prince of the Latian name. 
But by the yellow Tiber was tumult and affright : 
. 
From all the spacious champaign to Rome men took their flight. 
A mile around the city, the throng stopp'd up the ways ; 
A fearful sight it was to see through two long nights and days. 
For aged folks on crutches, and women great with child, 
And mothers sobbing over babes that clung to them and smiled, 
And sick men borne in litters high on the necks of slaves, 
And troops of sun-burn'd husbandmen with reaping-hooks and 
staves, 
And droves of mules and asses laden with skins of wine, 
And endless flocks of goats and sheep, and endless herds of 
kine, 
And endless trains of wagons that creak'd beneath the weight 
Of corn-sacks and of household goods, choked ever)" roaring 
gate. 
Now, from the rock Tarpeian, could the wan burghers spy 
The line of blazing villages red in the midnight sky. 
The Fathers of the City, they sat all night and day, 
For every hour some horseman came with tidings of dismay. 
To eastward and to westward have spread the Tuscan bands ; 
Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote in Crustumerium stands. 
Verbenna down to Ostia hath wasted all the plain ; 
Astur hath storm'd Janiculum, and the stout guards are slain. 



IIOR TIUS. - 5 t 
By the right wheel rode Mamilius, prince of the Lhtian name; 
And by the left false Sextus, that wrought the deed of shame. 
But when the face of Sextus was seen among the foes, 
A yell that rent the firmament from all the town arose. 
On the house-tops was no woman but spat towards him and 
hiss'd, 
No child but scream'd out curses, and hook its little fist. 
But the Consul's brow was sad, and the Consul's speech was low, 
And darkly look'd he at the wall, and darkly at the foe. 
"Their van will be upon us before the bridge goes down ; 
And if they once may win the bridge, what hope to save the 
town ?" 

Then out spake brave Horatius, the Captain of the Gate : 
"To every man upon this earth death cometh soon or late. 
And how can man die better than facing fearful odds, 
For the ashes of his fathers, and the temples of his Gods, 
And for the tender mother who dandled him to rest, 
And for the wife who nurses his baby at her breast, 
And for the holy maidens who feed the eternal flame, 
To save them from false Sextus that wrought the deed of shame ? 
Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, with all the speed ye may; 
I, with two more to help me, will hold the foe in play. 
In yon strait path a thousand may well be stopp'd by three. 
Now who will stand on either hand, and keep the bridge with 
hie ?" 

Then out spake Spurius Lartius ; a Ramnian proud was he : 
" Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, and keep the bridge with 
thee." 
And out spake strong Herminius ; of Titian blood was he : 
" I will abide on thy left side, and keep the bridge with thee." 

" Horatius," quoth the Consul, " as thou sayest, so let it be." 
And straight against that great array forth went the dauntless 
"l'hrcc. 



ttO R.,4 TI US. "-57 
"Curse on him !" quoth false Sextus; "will not the villain 
drown ? 
But for this stay, ere close of day we should have sack'd the 
town !" 
" Heavert hel l) him !" quoth Lars Porsena, "and bring him safe 
to shore 
For such a gallant feat of arms was never seen before." 
And now he feels the bottom ; now on dry earth he stands ; 
Now round hiln throng the Fathers to press his gory hands ; 
And now, with shouts and clapping, and noise of weeping loud, 
He enters through the River-Gate, borne by the joyous crowd. 
They gave him of the corn-land, that was of lmblic right, 
As rnuch as two strong oxen could plough from morn till night 
And they made a molten image, and set it up on high, 
And there it stands unto this day to witness if I lie. 
It stands in the Comitium, plain for all folk to see ; 
Horatius in his harness, halting upon one knee : 
And underneath is written, in letters all of gold, 
How valiantly he kept the bridge in the brave days of old. 
And still his name sounds stirring unto the men of Rome, 
As the trumpet-blast that cries to them to charge the Volscian 
home 
And wives still pray to Juno for boys with hearts as bold 
As his who kept the bridge so well in the brave days of old. 
And in the nights of winter, when the cold north-winds blow, 
And the long howling of the wolves is heard amidst the snow ; 
When round the lonely cottage roars loud the tempest's din, 
And the good logs of Algidus roar louder yet within 
When the oldest cask is open'd, and the largest lamp is lit 
When the chestnuts glow in the embers, and the kid turns on 
the spit ; 
When young and old in circle around the firebrands close ; 
When the girls are weaving baskets, and the lads are shaping 
bows ; 



DA I:ID SIVAN--A FANTASY. 

-.6 3 

place to the city of Boston, where his uncle, a small 
dealer in the grocery line, was to take him behind the 
counter. Be it enough to say, that he vas a native of 
New Hampshire, born of respectable parents, and had 
received an ordinary school education, with a classic finish 
by a year at Gilmanton Academy. After journeying on 
foot from sunrise till nearly noon of a summer's day, his 
weariness and the increasing heat determined him to sit 
down in the first convenient shade, and await the coming 
up of the stage-coach. As if planted on purpose for 
him, there soon appeared a little tuft of maples, ith a 
delightful recess in the midst, and such a fresh bubbling 
spring, that it seemed never to have sparkled for any 
wayfarer but David Swan. Virgin ol  not, he kissed it 
with his thirsty lips, and then flung himself along the 
brink, pillorying his head upon some shirts and a pair of 
pantaloons, tied up in a striped cotton handkerchief. The 
sunbeams could not reach him ; the dust did not yet rise 
from the road, after the heavy rain of yesterday ; and his 
grassy lair suited the young man better than a bed of 
down. The spring murmured drowsily beside him ; the 
branches waved dreamily across the blue sky overhead ; 
and a deep sleep, perchance hiding dreams within its 
depths, fell upon David Swan. But we are to relate 
events which he did not dream of. 
-- While he lay sound asleep in the shade, other people 
were wide-awake, and passed to an fro, afoot, on horse- 
back, and in all sorts of vehicles, along the sunny road 
by his bed-chamber. Some looked neither to the right 
hand nor to the left, and knew not that he vas there; 
some merely glanced that vay, without admitting the 
slumberer among their busy thoughts ; some laughed to 
see how soundly he slept ; and several, whose hearts were 



The longer they looked, the more did this elderly couple 
feel interested in the unknown youth, to whom the way- 
side and the maple shade were as a secret chamber, with 
the rich gloom of damask curtains brooding over him. 
Perceiving that a stray sunbeam glimmered down upon 
his face, the lady contrived to twist a branch aside, so as 
to intercept it. And having done this little act of kind- 
ness, she began to feel like a mother to him. 
" Providence seems to have laid him here," xvhispered 
she to her husband, " and to have brought us hither to 
find him, after our disappointment in our cousin's son. 
Methinks I can see a likeness to our departed Henry. 
Shall we waken him ? " 
" To xhat purpose? " said the merchant, hesitating. 
" \Ve know nothing of the youth's character." 
" That open countenance!" replied his wife, in the same 
hushed voice, yet earnestly. " This innocent sleep !" 
\Vhile these whispers were passing, the sleeper's heart 
did not throb, nor his breath become agitated, nor his 
features betray the least token of interest. Yet Fortune 
was bending over him, just ready to let fall a burthen of 
gold. The old merchant had lost his only son, and had 
no heir to his wealth, except a distant relative, with whose 
conduct he was dissatisfied. In such cases, people some- 
times do stranger things than to act the magician, and 
awaken a young man to splendor, xho fell asleep in 
poverty. 
" Shall we not waken him ?" repeated the lady, per- 
suasivel): 
" The coach is read)-, sir," said the servant, behind. 
The old couple started, reddened, and hurried avay, 
mutually wondering that they should ever have dreamed 
of doing anything so very ridiculous. The merchant 



266 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 
threw himself back in the carriage, and occupied his mind 
with the plan of a magnificent asylum for unfortunate 
men of business. Meanwhile, David Swan enjoyed his 
nap. 
The carriage could not have gone above a mile or-two, 
when a pretty young girl came along with a tripping 
pace, which showed precisely how her little heart was 
dancing in her bosom. Perhaps it was this merry kind 
of motion that causcdis there any harm in saying it ? 
hcr garter to slip its knot. Conscious that the silken 
girth, if silk it were, was relaxing its hold, she turned 
aside into the shelter of the maple-trees, and there found 
a young man asleep by the spring I Blushing as red as 
any rose, that she should have intruded into a gcntte- 
man's bed-chamber, and for such a purpose, too, she was 
about to make her escape on tiptoe. But there was pel 
near the sleeper. A monster of a bee had been wander- 
ing ovcrhcadbuzz, buzz, buzznow among the leaves, 
now flashing through the strips of sunshine, and now lost 
in the dark shade, ill finally he appeared to be settling 
on the eyelid of Da'id Swan. The sting of a bee is 
sometimes deadly. As free-hearted as she was innocent, 
the girl attacked the intruder with her handkerchief, 
brushed hm soun*lly, and drove hm from the maple shade. 
How sweet a picture] Thfs good deed accomplished, 
with quickened breath, and a deeper blush, she stole a 
glance at the youthful stranger, for whom she had been 
battling with a dragon in the air. 
" Iie is handsome" thought she, and blushed redder 
yet. 
How could t be that no dream of bliss grew so strong 
within him, that, shattcrcd by its vcry strength, it should 
part asundcr, and allow him to pcrccvc the girl among 



DAVID SIVAN--A FANTASY. "67 
its phantoms ? XVhy, at least, did no smile of welcome 
brighten upon his face ? She was come, the maid whose 
soul, according to the old and beautiful idea, had been 
severed from his own, and whom, in all his vague but 
passionate desires, he yearned to meet. Her only could 
he love with a perfect love--him only could she receive 
into the depths of her heart--and now her image was 
faintly blushing in the fountain by his side; should it 
pass away, its happy lustre would never gleam upon his 
life again. 
'" How sound he sleeps ! "murmured the girl. 
She departed, but did not trip along the road so lightly 
as when she camo_ 
Now, this girl's father was a thriving country merchant 
in the neighborhood, and happened, at that identical 
time, to be looking out for just such a young man as 
David Swan. Had David formed a wayside acquaint- 
ance with the daughter, he would have become the 
father's clerk, and all else in natural succession. So 
here, again, had good fortune--the best of fortunes-- 
stolen so near, that her garments brushed against him ; 
and he knew nothing of the matter. 
The girl was hardly out of sight, when two men turned 
aside beneath the maple shade. Both had dark faces, set 
off by cloth caps, which were drawn down aslant over 
their brows. Their dresses were shabby, yet had a cer- 
tain smartness. These were a couple of rascals, who 
got their living by whatever the devil sent them, and now, 
in the interim of other business, had staked the joint 
profits of their next piece of villainy on a game of cards, 
which was to have been decided here under the trees. 
But, finding Da id asleep by the spring, one of the rogues 
whispered to his fellow-- 



Each drank a comfortable dram, and left the spot, with 
so many jests, and such laughter at their unaccomplished 
wickedness, that they might be said to have gone on their 
way rejoicing. In a few hours they had forgotten the 
whole affair, nor once imagined that the recording angel 
had written down the crime of murder against thcir 
souls, in letters as durable as eternity. As for David 
Swan, he still slept quietly, neither conscious of the sha- 
dow of death when it hung over him, nor of the glow of 
renewed life when that shadow was with,lrawn. 
He slept, but no longer so quietly as at first. An hour's 
repose had snatched from his elastic frame the weariness 
with which man>" hours of toil had burthened it. Now he 
stirred--now moved his lips, without a sound--now 
talked in an inward tone to the noonday spectres of his 
dream. But a noise of wheels came rattlig lou|er and 
louder along the road, until it dashed through the dis- 
persing mist of David's slumber--and there was the stage- 
coach. He started up, with all his ideas about him. 
" Hallo, driver ! Take a passenger ?" shouted he. 
" Room on top !" answered the driver. 
Up mounted David, and bowled avay merrily towards 
Boston, without so much as a parting glance at that 
fountain of dreamlike vicissitude. He kne" not that a 
phantom of Wealth had thrown a golden hue upon its 
waters, nor that one of Love had sighed softly to their 
murmur, nor that one of Death had threatened to crimson 
them with his blood--all, in the brief hour since he lay 
down to sleep. Sleeping or vaking, we hear not the 
airy footsteps of the strange things that almost happen. 
Does it not argue a superintending Providence, that, 
while viewless and unexpected events thrust themselves 
continually athwart our path, there should still be regu 



.,4 DEAD ROSE. 
None knelt at her feet confess'd lovers in thrall ; 
They knelt more to God than they .used,--that was all ; 
If you praised her as charming, some ask'd what you meant, 
But the charm of her presence was felt when she went-- 
My Kate. 
The weak and the gentle, the ribald and rude, 
She took as she found them, and did them all good : 
It always was so with her : see what you have 
She has made the grass greener even here., with her grave-- 
My Kate. 
My dearone !--when thou wast alive with the rest, 
I held thee the sweetest and lov'd thee the best : 
And now thou art dead, shall I not take thy part 
As thy smiles used to do for thyself, nay sweet Heart-- 
My Kate ? 

LV. A DEAD ROSE. 

l,I RS. BROWNING. 
O ROSE, who dares to name thee ? 
No longer roseate now, nor soft nor sweet, 
But pale and hard and dry as stubble wheat,-- 
Kept seven years in a drawer, thy titles shame thee. 
The breeze that used to blow thee 
Between the hedgerow thorns, and take away 
An odor up the lane to last all day,- 
If breathing now, unsweeten'd would forego thee. 
The sun that used to smite thee, 
And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn 
Till beam appear'd to bloom, and flower to burn,-- 
If shining now, with not a l,u: would light thee. 



THE HIGH SCHOOl. READER. 

The dew that used to wet thee, 
And, white first, grow incarnadined because 
It lay tlpon thee where the crimson was,-- 
If dropping now, would darken where it met thee. 
The fly that 'lit upon thee 
To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet 
Along thy leaf's pure edges after heat,-- 
If "lighting now, would coldly ox'errun thee. 
The bee that once did suck thee, 
And build thy perfumed anabers up his hive, 
And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce Mire,- 
If passing now, would blindly overlook thee. 
The heart doth recognize thee, 
Alone, alone ! the heart doth smell thee sweet, 
I oth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete, 
Perceiving all those changes that disguise thee. 
Yes, and the heart doth owe thee 
More love, dead rose, than to an), roses bold 
Which Julia wears at dances, smiling cold :- 
Lie still upon this heart which breaks below thee .t 

LVI. TO THE EVENING WIND. 
i'ILLI.XM CULLEN 13RY.XNT.--1794-I87 . 
SPIRIT that breathest through nay lattice, thou 
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day, 
Gratefully flows thy freshness round nay brow ; 
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, 
Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, 
Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray: 
And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee 
To the scorch'd land, thou wanderer of the sea, 



TO THE EVEA'I, VG WI.VD. 

Nor I alone ;--a thousand bosoms round 
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight; 
And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound 
Livelier at coming of the wind of night ; 
And languishing to hear thy grateful sound, 
Lies the vast inland stretch'd beyond the sight. 
Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth, 
God's blessing breathed upon the fainting eartF, ! 

273 

Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest, 
Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse 
The wide old wood from his majestic rest, 
Summoning from the innumerable boughs 
The strange deep harmonies that haunt his breast ; 
Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows 
The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, 
And where the o'er-shadowing branches sweep the grass. 

The faint old man shall lean his silver head 
To feel thee ; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, 
.And dry the moisten'd curls that overspread 
His temples, while his breathing grows more deep ; 
And they who stand about the sick man's bed 
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, 
And softly part his curtains to allow 
Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. 

Go,--but the circle of eternal change, 
Which is the life of nature, shall restore, 
With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, 
Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more ; 
Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange, 
Shall tell the homesick mariner of the shore ; 
And, listening to thy murmur, he shall dream 
lie hears the rustling leaf and running streara. 
R 



DEtTH OF THE PROTECTOR. z75 
The Manzin!s and Dues de Crequi, with their splen- 
dors, and congratulations about Dunkirk, interesting 
to the street-populations and general public, had not 
yet withdrawn, when at Hampton Court there had be- 
gun a private scene, of much deeper and quite opposite 
interest there. The Lady Claypolc, Oliver's favorite 
Daughter, a favorite of all the world, had fallen sick we 
know not when; lay sick now,--to death, as it proved. 
Her disease was of a nature, the painfullest and most 
harassing to mind and sense, it is understood, that falls to 
the lot of a human creature. Hampton Court we can 
fancy once more, in those July days, a house of sorrow ; 
pale Death knocking there, as at the door of the meanest 
hut. " She had great sufferings, great exercises of spirit." 
Yes :--and in the depths of the old Centuries, we see a 
pale anxious Mother, anxious Husband, anxious wccping 
Sisters, a poor young Frances weeping anew in her weeds. 
"For the last fourteen days" his H ighness had been by her 
bedside at Hampton Court, unable to attend to any public 
business whatever. Be still, my Child ; trust thou yet in 
God : in the waves of the Dark River, there too is Hc a 
God of help !--On the 6th day of August she lay dead ; 
at rest forever. My young, my beautiful,my brave! She 
is taken from me; I am left bereaved of her. The Lord 
giveth, and the Lord taketh away; blessed be the Name 
of the Lord !-- . . . 
It the same dark days, occurred George Fox's third 
and last interview with Oliver.-- .... George dates noth- 
ing; and his facts everywhere lie round him like the leather- 
parings of his old shop: but we judge it may have been 
about the time when the lIanzinis and the Dues de Crequi 
were parading in their gilt coaches, That George and two 
Friends " going out of Town," on a summcr day, "two 



76 

THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 

of Hacker's men " had met them,--taken them, brought 
them to the Mews. " Prisoners there awhile :"--but the 
Lord's power was over Hacker's men ; the)" had to let us 
go. \Vhcreupon : 
'" The same day,taking boat I went down" (ztp)" to King- 
ston, and from thence to Hampton Court, to speak with 
the Protector about the Sufferings of Friends. I met him 
riding into Hampton-Court Park ; and before I came to 
him, as he rode at the head of his Lifeguard, I saw and 
felt a waft" (wh.ff)" of death go forth against him." 
--Or in favor of him. George ? ltis life, if thou knexv 
it, has not been a merry thing for this man, now or here- 
tofore ! I fancy he has been looking, this long while, to 
give it up, whenever the Commander-in-Chief required. 
To quit his laborious sentry-post ; honorably lay-up his 
arms, and be gone to his rest :--all Eternity to rest in, O 
George! Was thy own life merry, for example, in the 
hollow of the tree ; clad permanently in leather ? And 
does kingl)-purple, and governing refractory worlds in- 
stead of stitching coarse shoes, make it merrier? The 
waft of death is not against him, I think,--perhaps against 
thee, and me, and others, O George, when the Nell-Gwynn 
Defender and Two Centuries of all-victorious Cant have 
come in upon us ! gIy unfortunate George--" a waft 
of death go forth against him ; and when I came to him, 
he looked like a dead man. After I had laid the Suffer- 
ings of Friends before him, and had warned him accord- 
ing as I was moved to speak to him, he bade me come to 
his house. So I returned to Kingston ; and, the next day, 
went up to Hampton Court to speak farther with him. 
But when I came, Harvey, who was one that waited on 
him, tohl me the Doctors **ere not willing that I should 
speak with him. So I passed away, and never saw him 
more." 



THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 

".Afterwards, towards morning, he used divers holy ex- 
pressions, implying much inward consolation and peace ; 
among the rest he spake some exceeding self-debasing 
words, alzlzihilatilzff and judging himself. And truly it 
was observed, that a public spirit to God's Cause did 
breathe in him,--as in his lifetime, so now to his very 
last." 
\Vhen the morrow's sun rose, Oliver was speechless ; 
between three and four in the afternoon, he lay dead. 
Friday 3rd September 658. " The consternation and 
astonishment of all people," writes Fauconberg, "are in- 
expressible; their hearts seem as if sunk within them. 
My poor \Vife,--I know not what on earth to do with 
her. \Vhcla seemingly quieted, she bursts out again into 
a passion that tears her very heart in pieces.'Husht, 
poor weeping Mary ! Here is a Life-battle right nobly 
done. Scest thou not, 

" The storm is changed into a cahn, 
At His command and xx'ill ; 
So that the waves which raged befor 
Now quiet are and still! 

Then are the.), glad,--because at rest 
And quiet now they be : 
So to the haven l-le them brings 
V'hich they desired to see." 
" Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord ;" blessed 
are the valiant that have lived in the Lord. " Amen, 
saith the Spirit,"---Amen. "They do rest from their 
labors, and their works follow them:" 
"Their works follow them." As, I think,this Oliver Crom- 
well's works have done and are still doing ! \Ve have had 
our" Revolutions of Eighty-eight," officially called "glori- 
ous "; and other Revolutions not yet called glorious; 



DEATH OF THE PROTECTOR. 

and somewhat has been gained for poor Mankind. Men's 
ears are not now slit-off by rash Officiality; Officiality 
will, for long henceforth, be more cautious about men's 
ears. The tyrannous Star-chambers, branding-irons, 
chimerical Kings and Surplices at All-hallowtide, they 
are gone, or with immense velocity going. Oliver's 
works do follow him!--The works of a man, bur)" them 
under what guano-mountains and obscene owl-droppings 
you will, do not perish, cannot perish. What of Heroism, 
what of Eternal Light was in a Man and his Life, is with 
very great exactness added to the Eternities ; remains for- 
ever a new divine portion of the Sum of Things ; and no 
owl's voice, this way or that, in the least avails in the 
matter.--But we have to end here. 
Oliver is gone; and with him England's Puritanism, 
laboriously built together b)" this man, and made a thing 
far-shining, miraculous to its own Centur)', and memor- 
able to all the Centuries, soon goes. Puritanism, without 
its King, is kingless, anarchic ; falls into dislocation, self- 
collision; staggers, plunges into ever deeper anarchy; 
King, Defender of the Puritan Faith there can nmv none 
be found ;--and nothingis left but to recall theold disowned 
Defender with the remnants of his Four Surplices, and 
Two Centuries of tlypocrisis (or Play-acting nol so-called), 
and put-up with all that, the best we may. The Genius 
of England no longer soars Sumvard, world-defiant, like 
an Eagle through the storms, "mewing her might)- 
youth," as John Milton saw her do : the Genius of Eng- 
land, much liker a greedy Ostrich intent on provender 
and a whole skin mainly, stands with its other extremity 
Sunward ; with its Ostrich-head stuck into the readiest 
bush, of old Church-tippets, King-cloaks, or what other 
"sheltering Fallacy" there may be, and so awaits the 



EACH AND ALL. 

The delicate shells lay on the shore ; 
The bubbles of the latest wave 
Fresh pearls to their enamel gave, 
And the bellowing of the savage sea 
Greeted their safe escape to me. 
I wiped away the weeds and foam-- 
I fetch'd nay sea-born treasures home; 
But the poor unsightly, noisome things 
Had left their beauty on the shore, 
With the sun and the sand, and the ild uproar. 

The lover watch'd his graceful maid, 
As 'mid the virgin train she stray'd ; 
Nor knew her beauty's best attire 
Was woven still by the snow-white choir. 
At last she came to his hermitage, 
Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage- 
The gay enchantment was undone-- 
A gentle wife, but fair)" none. 

Then I said, " I covet truth ; 
Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat-- 
I leave it behind with the games of youth." 
As I spoke, beneath my feet 
The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath, 
Running over the club-moss burrs ; 
I inhaled the violet's breath ; 
Around me stood the oaks and firs ; 
Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground ; 
Over me soar'd the eternal sky, 
Full of light and of deity ; 
Again I saw, again I heard, 
The rolling river, the morning bird ; 
Beauty through my senses stole-- 
I yielded myself to the perfect whole. 



284 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 

LIX. WATERLOO. 

CH .RI.ES J A.MES LE. ER.--I8O6-I872. 
F'OJJI CHARLES O'S]ALLEY'. 
" TIIIS is the officer that I spoke of," said an aid-de- 
camp, as hc rode up to where I u as standing, bare-head- 
ed and without a sword. " He has just made his escape 
from the Vrench lines, and will be able to give your 
lordship some information." 
The handsome fcaturcs and gorgcous costumc of Lord 
Uxbridge were known to me; but I wa not aware, till 
afterwards, that a soldicrlike, resolute looking officer be- 
side him, was General Graham. It was the latter who 
first addressed me. 
" Are you aware, Sir," said he, "if Grouchy's force is 
arrived ?" 
"They had not: on the contrary, shortly before I 
escaped, an aid-de-camp was despatched to Gcmbloux, 
to hasten his coming. And the troops, for the)" must bc 
troops, debouching from the wood yonder--they seem 
to form a junction with the corps to the right--they 
are the Prussians. The)- arrived there before noon from 
St. Lambert, and are part of Btilow's corps. Count 
L6bau and his division of ten thousand men were de- 
spatched, about an hour since, to hold them in check." 
"This is great ncws," said Lord Uxbridge. "Fitzr%v 
must know it at once." 
So saying he dashed spurs into his horse, and soon dis- 
appeared amid the crowd on the hill top. 
"You .had better see the Duke, Sir," said Graham: 
"your information is too important to be delayed. Cap- 
tain Calvert, let this officer have a horse ; his own is too 
tired to go much further." 



"And a cap, I beg of you," added I, in an under tone; 
"for I have already found a sabre." 
By a slight circuitous route, we reached the road upon 
which a mass of dismounted artillery-carts, baggage-wag- 
ons, and tumbrils, xvere heaped together as a barricade 
against the attack of the French dragoons, who more 
than OllCe had penetrated to the very crest of our posi- 
tion. Close to thi, and on a little rising ground, from 
xx hich a view of the entire field extended from Hougou- 
mont to the far left, the Duke of \Vellington stood, sur- 
rounded by his staff. His eye was bent upon the valley 
before him, where the advancing columns of Ney's attack 
still pressed onwards ; while the fire of sixty great guns 
poured death and carnage into his lines. The second 
Belgian division, routed and broken, had fallen back upon 
the twenty-seventh regiment, who had merely time to 
throw themselves into square, when Milhaud's cuirassiers, 
armed with a terrible long straight sword, came sweeping 
down upon them. A line of impassable bayonets, a 
living che,au.r-cle-frise of the best blood of Britain, stood 
firm and motionless before the shock: the French 
mitraille played mercilessly on the ranks ; but the chasms 
were filled up like magic, and in vain the bold horsemen 
of Gaul galloped round the bristling files. At length 
the word "fire!" vas heard within the square, and as the 
bullets at pistol range rattled upon them, the cuirass af- 
forded them no defence against the deadly volley. Men 
and horses rolled indiscriminately upon the earth : then 
would come a charge of our dashing squadrons, who, 
riding recklessly upon the foe, were, in their turn, to be 
repulsed by numbers, when fresh attacks would pour 
down upon our unshaken infantr): 
"That column yonder is wavering: why does he not 



Z86 7HE HIGH SCHOOL 

bring up his supporting squadrons ?" i,lquircd the Duke, 
pointing to a Belgian regiment of light dragoous, who 
were formed in the same brigade with the seventh hus- 
Sal-S. 
" He rcfuscs to oppose his light cavalry to cuirassicrs, 
my lord," said an aid-de-camp, who had just returned 
from the division in question. 
"Tcll him to march his men off the ground," said the 
Duke, with a quiet and impassive tone. 
In less than ten minutes the regiment was seen to de- 
file from the mass, a:d take the road to Brussels, to in- 
crease the panic of that city. by circulating aud strength- 
cuing the report, that the English were bcatcn,--and 
Napoleon in full march upon the capital. 
"\Vhat's Ncy's force ? can you guess, Sir ?" said Lord 
\Vellington turning to me. 
"About twelve thousand men, my lord." 
"Are the Guard among them ?" 
'" No, Sir; the Guard arc in reserve above La Belle 
Allia,ce." 
"In what part of the field is Buonapartc ?" 
" Nearly opposite to where we stand." 
" I toll you, gentlemen, I-Iougoumont never was the 
great attack. The battle must be decided here," pointing, 
as he spoke, to the plain beneath us, where still Ney 
pourcd on his dcvot_,l columns, here yet the French 
cavah 3- rode down upon our firm squares. 
As he spoke an aid-de-camp rode up from the valley-. 
" The ninety-second requires support, my lord: they 
cannot maintain their positions half an hour longer, 
without it." 
" Have they given way, Sir ?" 



288 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 

pulsed, disordered, and broken, had retired beneath the 
protection of their artillery. 
There was, as a brilliant and eloquent writer on the 
subject mentions, a terrible sameness in the whole of this 
battle. Incessant charges of cavalry upon the squares 
)f our infantD', whose sole manoeuvre consisted in either 
deploying into line to resist the attack of infantry, or 
falling back into square when the cavalry advanced per- 
forming those two evolutions under the devastating fire of 
artillery,, before the unflinching heroism of that veteran 
infantry whose glories had been reaped upon the blood- 
stained fields of Austcrlitz, Marengo, and ,Vagram-- 
or opposing an unbroken front to the whirhvind swoop 
of infuriated cavalry ;--such were the enduring and de- 
voted services demanded from the English troops, and 
such they failed not to render. Once or twice had tem- 
per ncarly failed them, and the cry ran through the ranks, 
"Are we never to move forward?--Only let us at them!" 
But the word was not yet spoken which was to undam 
the pent-up torrent, and bear down with unrelenting 
vengeance upon the now exulting columns of the enemy. 
It was six o'clock: the battle had continued with un- 
changed fortune for three hours. The French, masters 
of La Haye Sainte, could never advance further into 
our position. They had gained the orchard of Hougou- 
mont, but the chateau was still held by the British Guards, 
although its blazing roof and crumbling walls made its 
occupation rather the desperate stand of unflinching 
valor than the maintenance of an important position. 
The smoke which hung upon the field rolled in slow 
and heavy masses back upon the French lines, and gradu- 
ally discovered to our view the entire of the army. We 
quickly perceived that a change was taking place in 



IF.A TERLO0. 289 

their position. The troops which on their left stretched 
far beyond Hougournont, were now moved nearer to the 
centre. The attack upon the chateau seemed less vigor- 
ously supported, while the oblique direction of their right 
wing, vhich, pivoting upon Planchenoit, opposed a face 
to the Prussians,--all denoted a change in their order of 
battle. It was now the hour when Napoleon was at last 
convinced that nothing but the carnage he could no longer 
support could destroy the unyielding ranks of British in- 
fantry; that although Hougoumont had been partially, 
La Haye Sainte, cornpletely, won; that although upon 
the right the farm-houses Papelotte and La Haye vere 
nearly surrounded by his troops, which with all)- other 
army must prove the forerunner of defeat: yet still the 
victory vas beyond his grasp. The bold stratagems, 
whose success the experience of a life had proved, vere 
here to be found powerless. The decisive manoeuvre of 
carrying one important point of the enemy's lines, of 
turning him upon the flank, or piercing him through the 
centre,vere here found impracticable. He might launch 
his avalanche of grape-shot, he rnight pour down his 
crashing columns of cavalry, he might send forth the iron 
storm of his brave infantry; but, though death :.n every 
shape heralded their approach, still vcre others found to 
fill the fallen ranks, and feed with their heart's blood the 
unslaked thirst for slaughter. Well might the gallant 
leader of this gallant host, as he watched the reckless 
onslaught of the untiring enemy, and looked upon the 
unflinching few, who, bearing the proud badge of Britain, 
alone sustained the fight, well might he exclaim, " Night, 
or Blticher !" 
It was now seven o'clock, when a dark mass was seen 
to form upon the heights above the French centre, and 



-9 THE HIGH SCIIOOL READER. 
dreadfi, l struggle that the histo,y of all war can present. 
Furious with long restrained passion, the guards rushed 
upon the leading divisions ; the seventy-first, and ninety- 
fifth, and twenty-sixth overlapped them on the flanks. 
Their generals fell thickly on evcry side; Michel, Jamicr, 
and Mallet are killed: Friant lies wounded upon the 
ground; Ney, his dress pierced and ragged with balls, 
shouts still to advance; but the leading flies waver; 
they fall back ; the supporting divisions thicken ; confu- 
sion, panic succeeds ; the British press down ; the cavalry 
come galloping up to their assistance ; and, at last, pell- 
moll, overwhelmed and beaten, the French fall back upon 
the Old Guard. This was the decisive moment of the 
day ;--the Duke closed his glass, as he said : 
'*The rich! is won. Order the whole line to advance2 
On they came, four deep, and poured like a torrent 
from the height. 
"Let the Life Guards charge them," said the Duke; 
but every aid-de-camp on his staff was wounded, and [ 
myself brought the order to Lord Uxbridge. 
Lord Uxbri, lge had already anticipated his orders, and 
bore down with four regiments of heavy cavalry upon 
the French centre. The Prussian artillery thundered 
upon their flank, and at their rear. The British bayonet 
was in their front ; while a panic fear spread through their 
ranks, and the cry of "Sau'e quiicut!" resounded on all 
sides. In vain Ncy, the bravest of the brave; in vain 
Soult, Bertrand, Gourgaud, and Lai'_'doy:re, burst from 
the broken disorganized mass, and called on them to 
stand fast. A battalion of the Old GuaM, with Cam- 
bronne at their head, alone obeyed the summons : form- 
ing into square, they stood between the pursuers and 
their prey, offering themselves a sacrifice to the tarnish- 



THE PLAGUE OF LOCU3"TS. 

299 

And Heaven, as he listen'd, spoke out from the space, 
And the hope that makes heroes shot flame from his eyes ; 
He gazed on the blush in that beautiful face-- 
It pales--at the feet of her father she lies ! 
How priceless the guerdon !--a moment--a breath-- 
And headlong he plunges to life and to death ! 

They hear the loud surges sweep back in their swell,. 
Their coming the thunder-sound heralds along ! 
Fond eyes yet are tracking the spot where he fell. 
They come, the wild waters, in tumult and throng, 
Roaring up to the cliff,--roaring back as before, 
But no wave ever brings the lost youth to the shore ! 

LXI. THE PLAGUE OF LOCUSTS. 

C.RDINAL 
From CALLISTA. 
JUBA'S finger was directed to a spot where, amid the 
thick foliage, the gleam of a pool or of a marsh was visi- 
ble. The various waters round about, issuing from the 
gravel, or drained from the nightly damps, had run into 
a hollow, filled with the decaying vegetation of former 
),ears. Its banks were bordered with a deep, broad layer 
of mud, a transition substance between the rich vegetable 
matter which it once had been, and the multitudinous 
world of insect life which it was becoming. A cloud or 
mist at this time was hanging over it, high in air. A harsh 
and shrill sound, a whizzing or a chirping, proceeded from 
that cloud to the ear of the attentive listener. What 
these indications portended was plain. . . 



7"HE tLAGUE OF LOCUSTS. 

3Ol 

the door-posts of the houses. Nor do the)" execute their 
task in so slovenly a way, that, as they have succeeded 
other plagues, so they may have successors themselves. 
They take pains to spoil what they leave. Like the 
Harpies, they smear every thing that they touch xith a 
miserable slime, which has the effect of a virus in corrod- 
ing, or as some say, in scorching and burning. .And t.hen, 
perhaps, as if all this were little, when they can do nothing 
else, they die ; as if out of sheer malevolence to man, fc)r 
the poisonous elements of their nature are then let loose 
and dispersed abroad, and create a pestilence ; and they 
manage to destroy many more by their death than in 
their life. 
Such are the locusts. .And now they are rushing upon 
a considerable tract of that beautiful region of which we 
have spoken with such admiration. The swarm to which 
Juba pointed grew and grew till it became a compact 
body, as much as a furlong square ; yet it was but the 
vanguard of a series of similar hosts, formed one after 
another out of the hot mould or sand, rising into the air 
like clouds, enlarging into a dusk)" canopy, and then dis- 
charged against the fruitful plain. At length the huge 
innumerous mass was put into motion, and began its 
career, darkening the face of day. As became an instru- 
ment of divine power, it seemed to have no volition of 
its own ; it was set off, it drifted, with the wind, and thus 
made northwards, straight for Sicca. Thus they ad- 
vanced, host after host, for a time wafted on the air, and 
gradually declining to the earth, while fresh broods were 
carried over the first, and neared the earth, after a longer 
flight, in their turn. For twelve miles did they extend 
from front to rear, and their whizzing and hissing could 
be heard for six miles on ever}" side of them. The bright 



302 

THE HIGH SCHOOL R'ADER. 

sun, though hidden by them, illumined their bodies, and 
was reflected from their quivering wings; and as they 
heavily fell earthward, they sccmcd like the innumerable 
flakes of a yellow-colored snow. And like snowy did 
they descend, a li ing carpet, or rather pall, upon fields, 
crops, gardens, copses, groves, orchards, vineyards, olive 
woods, orangeries, palm plantations, and the deep forests, 
sparing nothing ithin their reach, and where there was 
nothing to devour, lying helpless in drifts, or crawling 
forward obstinately, as they best might, with the hope 
of prey. They could spare their hundred thousand sol- 
diers twice or thrice over, and not miss them; their 
masses filled the bottoms of the ravines and hollow ways, 
impeding the traveller as he rode forward on his journey 
and trampled by thousands under his horse-hoofs. In 
vain was all this overthrow and waste by the roadside, 
in vain their los,s in river, pool, and watercourse. The 
poor peasants hastily dug pits and trenches as their 
enemy came on ; in vain they filled them from the wells 
or with lighted stubble. Hearily and thickly did the 
locusts fall ; they were lavish of their lives ; they choked 
the flame and the water, which destroyed them the while, 
and the vast liring hostile armament still rooted on. 
They moved right on like soldiers in their ranks, stop- 
ping at nothing, and straggling for nothing ; they carried 
a broad furrow or wheal all across the country, black and 
loathsome, while it was as green and smiling on each side 
of them and in front, as it had been before they came. 
Before them, in the language of prophets, was a paradise. 
and behind them a desert. They are daunted by nothing 
they surmount u alls and hedges, and enter enclosed gar- 
dens or inhabited houses. A rare and experimental 
ineyard has been planted in a sheltered grove. The 



THE PL.XIGUE OF LOCUSTS. 

303 

high winds of Africa will not commonly allow the light 
trellice or the slim pole; but here the loft)" poplar of 
Campania has been possible, on which the vine plant 
mounts so man)" yards into the air, that the poor grape- 
gatherers bargain for a funeral pile and a tomb as one 
the conditions of their engagement. The locusts have 
done what the winds and lightning could not do, ald the 
whole promise of the vintage, leaves and all, is gone, and 
the slender sterns are left bare. There is another .yard, 
less uncommon, but still tended with more than common 
care ; each plant is kept within due bounds b)" a circular 
trench round it, and by upright canes on which it is to 
trail ; in an hour the solicitude and long toil of the vine- 
dresser are lost, and his pride humbled. There is a 
smiling farm ; another sort of vine, of remarkable char- 
acter, is found against the farmhouse. This vine springs 
from one root, and has clothed and matted with its man)" 
branches the four walls. The whole of it is covered thick 
with long clusters, which another month will ripen. On 
ever3, grape and leaf there is a locust. Into the dry 
caves and pits, carefully strewed with straw, the harvest- 
men have (safely, as they thought just now) been lodging 
the far-famed Afi-ican wheat. One grain or root shoots 
up into ten, twenty, fifty, eight)', nay, three or four hun- 
tired stalks : sometimes the stalks have two ears apiece, 
and these shoot into a number of lesser ones. These 
stores are intended for the Roman populace, but the 
locusts have been beforehand with them. The small 
patches of ground belonging to th - poor peasants up and 
down the countr)", for raising the turnips, garlic, barley, 
water-melons, on which they live, are the prey of these 
glutton invaders as much as the choicest vines and olives. 
Nor have they any reverence for the villa of the civic 



30* THE HIGH .CttOOL READER. 

decurion or the Roman official. The neatly arranged 
kitchen garden, with its cherries, plums, peaches, aud 
apricots, is a waste ; as the slaves sit round, in the kit- 
chen in the first court, at their coarse evening meal, the 
room is filled with the invading force, and news comes 
to them that the enemy has fallen upon the apples and 
pears in the basement, and is at the same time plunder- 
ing and sacking the preserves of quince and pomegranate, 
and revelling in the jars of precious oil of Cyprus and 
Mcndes in the store-rooms. 
They come up to the walls of Sicca, and are flung 
against them into the ditch. Not a moment's hesitation 
or delay; they recover their footing,, they climb up the 
wood or stucco, theyurmount the parapet, or they have 
entered in at the windovs, filling the apartments, and the 
most private and luxurious chambers, not one or two, 
like stragglers at forage or rioters after a victory, but in 
order f battle, and with the array of an army. Choice 
plants or flowers about the imph'ia and a-ysti, for orna- 
ment or refreshment, myrtles, oranges, pomegranates, 
the rose and the ear,ration, have disappeared.. They dim 
the bright marbles of the walls and the gilding of the 
cciling.. They enter the triclinium in the midst of the 
banquet ; they crawl over the viands and spoil what they 
do not devour. Unrelaxed by success and by enjoyment, 
onward they go ; a secret mysterious instinct keeps them 
together, as if they had a king over them. They move 
along the floor in so strange an order that they seem to 
be a tessellated pavement themselves, and to be the arti- 
ficial embellishment of the place ; so true arc their lines, 
and so perfect is the pattern they describe. Onward 
they go, to the market, to the temple sacrifices, to the 
bakers' stores, to the cookshops, to the confectioners, to 



THE P'LdGUE OF LOCUSTS. 3o 5 
the druggists ; nothing comes amiss to them ; wherever 
man has aught to eat or drink, there are they,-rcckless of 
death, strong of appetite, certain of conquest. 
Another and a still vorse calamity. The invaders, as 
ve have already hinted, could be more terrible still in 
their overthrow than in their ravages. The inhabitants 
of the country had attempted, where the), could, to de- 
stroy them by fire and water. It would seem as if the 
malignant animals had resolved that the sufferers should 
have the benefit of this policy to the full ; for the), had 
not got more than twenty miles beyond $icca when they 
suddenly sickened and died. When they thus had done 
all the mischief they could by their living, when they thus 
had made their foul maws the grave of every living thing, 
next they died themselves, and made the desolated land 
their own grave. They took from it its hundred forms 
and varieties of beautiful life, and left it their own fetid 
and poisonous carcases in payment. It was a sudden 
catastrophe ; they seemed making for the Mediterranean, 
as if, like other great conquerors, they had other worlds 
to subdue beyond it ; but, whether they were ovcrgorged, 
or struck by some atmospheric change, or that their time 
was come and the), paid the debt of nature, so it va.s 
that suddenly they fell, and their glory came to nought, 
and all was vanity to them as to others, and "their stench 
rose up, and their corruption rose up, because they had 
done proudly." 
The hideous swarms lay dead in the moist steaming 
underwoods, in the green svamps, in the sheltered val- 
leys, in the ditches and furrows of the fields, amid the 
monuments of their ovn prowess, the ruined crops and 
the dishonored vineyards. A poisonous element, issuing 
from their remains, mingled with the atmosphere, and 
T 



forbidden him her house, he had obeyed her, and 
maincd at a distance. 
",'ou had but to ask, and you knew I would be here," 
he saick 
She gave him her hand, her little fair hand : there was 
only her marriage ring on i The quarrel was all over. 
The year of grief and estrangement was passed. They 
never had been separated. His mistress had never been 
out of his mind all that time No, not once No, not in 
the prison ; nor in the camp ; nor on shore before the 
enemy ; nor at sea under the stars of solemn midnight ; 
nor as he watched the glorious rising of the dawn : not 
even at the table, where he sat carousing with fends, or 
at the theatre yonder, where he tried to fancy that other 
eyes were brighter than hers. Brighter eyes there 
might be, and faces more beautiful, but none so dearno 
voice so sweet as that of his beloved mistress, who had 
been sister, mother, goddess to him during his youth 
goddess nov nmore, for he knew of her weaknesses ; 
and by thought, by suffering, and that experience it 
brings, was older now than she; but more fondly cher- 
ished  woman perhaps than ever she had been adored 
as divinity. What is it ? Where lies it ? the secret which 
makes one little hand the arest of all ? Who ever can 
unriddle that myste? Here she was, her son by his 
side, his dear bo) Here she was, weeping and happy. 
She took his hand in both hers; he felt her tears. It 
was a rapre of reconciliation .... 
"And HarD"s coming home to supper. Huzzay! 
huzzay !" cries my lor& " Mother, I shall run home and 
bid Beatrix put her ribbons on. Beatrix is a maid of 
honor, HarD'. Such a fine set-up minx " 
" Your heart was never in the Church, Har," the 



31  "ITtE tlIGtt SCHOOL A'EA1)Eh'. 
xidow said, i her sweet low tone, as they walked away 
together. (Now, it seemed they had never been parted, 
and again, as if the)" had been ages asunder.) " I always 
thought you had no vocation that way ; and that 'twas a 
pit)-to shut you out from the world. You would but 
have pined and chafed at Castlewood: and 'tis better 
you should make a name for )-ourself. I often said so to 
my dear lord. How he loved you ! 'Twas my lord that 
made you stay with us." 
" I asked no better than to stay near you ahva)'s," said 
Mr. Esmond. 
"But to go was best, Harry. \Vhen the world cannot 
give peace, you will know where to find it; but one o[ 
)'our strong imagination and eager desires must tr)" the 
world first before he tires of it. 'Twas not to be thought 
of, or if it once was, it was only b)- my selfishness, that 
you should remain as chaplain to a country gentleman 
and tutor to a little boy. You are of the blood of the" 
Esmonds, kinsman ; and that was always wild in youth. 
Look at Francis. He is but fifteen, and I scarce can keep 
him in my nest. His talk is all of war and pleasure, and 
he longs to serve in the next campaign. Perhaps he and 
the young Lord Churchill shall go the next. Lord Marl- 
borough has been good to us. You know how kind they 
were in m)" misfortune. And so was youryour father's 
widow. No one knows how good the world is, till grief 
comes to t.ry us. 'Tis through my Lady Marlborough's 
goodness that Beatrix hath her place at Court ; and Frank 
is under my Lord Chamberlain. _And the dowager lady, 
)'our father's widow, has promised to provide for you 
has she not ?" 
Esmond said, "Ves. _As far as present favor went, 
Lady Castlewood was very good to him. And should 



THE IECONCILLI TIOA . 313 
her mind change," he added gaily, "as ladies' minds vill, 
I am strong enough to bear my own burden, and make 
my vay somehow. Not by the sword very likely. 
Thousands have a better genius for that than I, but there 
are many ways in which a young man of good parts and 
education can get on in the world ; and I am pretty sure, 
one way or other, of promotion !" Indeed, hc had found 
patrons already in the army, and amongst persons very 
able to serve him, too ; and tohl his mistress of the flatter- 
ing aspect of fortune. They walked as though they had 
never bccn parted, slowl)-, with the grey twilight closing 
round them. 
"And now we arc drawing near to home," she cola- 
tinucd, "I knew you wouhl come, Har W, ifif it was 
but to forgive mc for having spoken unjustly to you 
after that horrid--horrid misfortune. I was half frantic 
with grief then when I saw you. And I know now-- 
they have told me. That wretch, whose name I can never 
mention, even has said it: how you tried to avert the 
quarrel, and would have taken it on yourself, my poor 
child: but it was God's will that I should bc punished, 
and that my dear lord should fall." 
"He gave mc his blessing on his death-bed," Esmond 
said. "Thank God for that lcgacy!" 
"Amen, amen! dear HemT:" said the lady, pressing 
his arm. "I knew it. Mr. Attcrbury, of St. 13ride's, who 
was called to him, told mc so. And I thanked God, too, 
and in my prayers ever since remembered it." 
" You had spared me many a bitter night, had you told 
rnc sooner," lr. Esmond said. 
'I know it, I know it," she answered, in a tone of such 
weet humility, as made Esmond repent that hc should 
ever ha'e dared to reproach her. "I know how wicked 



THE ISLAND OF THE SCOTS. 35 
upon him ? Not in vain--not in vain has he lived--hard 
and thankless should he be to think so--that has such a 
treasure given him. \\'hat is ambition compared to that, 
but selfish vanity? To be rich, to be famous? \Vlaat 
do these profit a year hence, when othcr names sound 
louder than yours, when you lie hidden away under the 
ground, along with idle titles engraven on your coffin ? 
But only true love lives after you--follows your memory 
with sccrct blessing--or precedes you, and intercedes for 
you. A'on omnis morim'---if dying, I yet live in a tender 
heart or two ; nor am lost and hopeless living, if a sainted 
departed soul still loves and prays for me. 

L)JV. THE ISLAND OF THE SCOTS. 
(DEcq;, 697. } 

WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN.--ISI3-I865. 
THE Rhine is running deep and red, the island lies before,- 
"Now is there one of all the host will dare to venture o'er ? 
For not alone the river's sweep might make a brave man quail ; 
The foe are on the further side, their shot comes fast as hail. 
God help us, if the middle isle we may not hope to win ! 
Now is there any of the host will dare to venture in ?" 
" The ford is deep, the banks are steep, th island-shore lies 
wide ; 
Nor man nor horse could stem its force, or reach the further side. 
See there ! amidst the willow-boughs the serried bayonets gleam ; 
They've flung their bridge,--they've won the isle ; the foe have 
cross'd the stream ! 
Their volley flashes sharp and strong,--by all the saints ! ] trow 
There never yet was soldier born could force that passage now !" 



38 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 
High flew the spray above their heads, yet omvard still they 
bore, 
Midst cheer, and shout, and answering yell, and shot, and 
cannon-roar,- 
"Now, by the Holy Cross I I swear, since earth and sea began, 
Was never such a daring deed essay'd by mortal man !" 

Thick blew the smoke across the stream, and faster flash'd the 
flame : 
The water plash'd in hi,sing jets as ball and bullet came. 
Yet onwards lmsh'd the Cavaliers all stern and undismay'd, 
With thousand armbd foes before, and none behind to aid. 
Once, as they near'd the middle stream, so strong the torrent 
swept, 
That scarce that long and living wall their dangerous footing 
kept. 
Then rose a warning cry behind, a joyous shout before : 
"The current's strong,--the way is long,--they'll never reach 
the shore ! 
Se6, see ! they stagger in the midst, they waver in their line ! 
Fire on the madmen! break thcir ranks, and whehn them in 
the Rhine !" 

Have you seen the tall trees swaying when the blast is sounding 
shrill, 
Xnd the whirlwind reels in fury down the gorges of the hill ? 
How they toss their mighty branches struggling with the tern- 
pest's shock ; 
How they keep their place of vantage, cleaving firmly to the 
rock ? 
Even so the Scottish warriors held their own against the river 
Though the water flash'd around them, not an eye was seen to 
quiver ; 
fhough the shot flew sharp and deadly, not a man relax'd his 
hold ; 



.]22 

HIGH .s_CHOOL REAIPtR. 

Baron's elbow and whispering in a voice which everybody 
could understand. All this meant that supper was ready. 
It was brought into the room. 
Gaming has one advantage, it gives you an appetite ; 
that is to say, so long as you have a chance remaining. 
The luke had thousands; for at present his resources 
were unimpared, and he was exhausted by the constant 
attention and anxiety of five hours, tie passed over the 
delicacies and went to the side-table, and began cutting 
himself some cohl roast beef. Tom Cogit ran up, not to 
his Grace, but to the Baron, to announce the shocking 
fact that the Duke of St. James was enduring great 
trouble ; and thc,a the Baron asked his Grace to permit 
Mr. ('ogit to serve him. Our hero devoured : we use the 
word advisedly, as fools say in the House of Commons: 
he devoured the roast beef, and rejecting the Itcrmitage 
with disgust, asked for porter. 
The), set to again flesh as eagles. At six o'clock 
accounts were so complicated that they stopped to 
make up their books. Each played with his memor- 
anda and pencil at his side. Nothing fatal had yet hap- 
pened. The Duke owed Lord Dice about five thou- 
sand pounds, and Temple Grace owed him as man)- hun- 
drcd Lord Castlcfort also was his debtor to the tune 
of seven hundred and lift)-, and the Baron was in his 
books, but slightly. Ever)- half-hour they had a new 
pack of cards, and threw the used one on the floor. All 
this time Tom Cogit did nothing but snuff the candles, 
stir the fire, bring them a new pack, and occasionally 
make a tumbler for them. At eight o'clock the Duke's 
situation was worsened. The run was greatly against 
him, and perhaps his losses were doubled. He pulled up 
again the next hour or two; but nevertheless, at ten 



TttI GA.ilBLLVG 

3---3 

o'clock, owed every one something. No one offered to 
give over ; and everyone, perhaps, felt that his object was 
not obtained. They made their toilets and went down- 
stairs to breakfast. In the meantime the shutters were 
opened, the room aired, and in less than an hour they 
were at it agail. 
They played till dinner-time without intermission ; and 
though the Duke made some desperate efforts, and some 
successful ones, his losses were, nevertheless, trebled. 
Yet he ate an excellent dinner and was not at all 
pressed ; because the more he lost, the more his courage 
and his resources seemed to expand. At first he had 
limited ]aimsclf to ten thousand; after breakfast it was 
to have been twenty thousand; then thirty thousand was 
the ultimatum; and nov hc dismissed all thoughts of 
limits from his mind, and was determined to risk or gain 
everything. 
At midnight, he had lost forty-eight thousand pounds. 
Affairs now began to be serious. I I is supper was not so 
hearty. V'hile the rest were eating, he walked about 
the room, and began to limit his ambition to recover),, 
and not to gain. "Vhcn you play to win back, the fun is 
over : there is nothing to recompense you for your bodily 
tortures and your degraded feelings ; and the very best 
result that can happen, x hilc it has no charms, seems to 
your cowed mind impossible. 
On they played, and the Duke lost more. His mind 
was jaded. He floundered, he made desperate efforts, 
but plunged deeper in the slough. Feeling that, to re- 
gain his ground, each card must tcll, he acted on each as 
if it must win, and the consequences of this insanity (for 
a gamester at such a crisis is really insane) were, that his 
losses were prodigious. 



324 

THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 

Another morning came, and there they sat, ankle-deep 
in cards. No attempt at breakfast now, no affectation 
of making a toilet or airing the room. The atmosphere 
was hot, to be sure, but it well became such a Hell. 
There the)" sat, in total, in positive forgetfulness of every- 
thing but the hot game the), were hunting down. There 
was not a man in the room, except Tom Cogit, who could 
have tohl you the name of the town in which they were 
living. There they sat, almost breathless, watching every 
turn with the fell look in their cannibal eyes which showed 
their total inability to sympathize with their fellow- 
beings. All fo,-ms of society had been long forgotten. 
There was no snuff-box handed about now, for courtesy, 
admiration, or a pinch; no affectation of occasionally 
making a remark Ul-m any other topic but the all-en- 
grossing one. I.ord Castlcfort rcstcl with his a,ms on 
the table: a false tooth had got unhinged. His Lord- 
ship, who, at any other time, would have been most an- 
no)-ed, coolly put it in his pocket, t lis checks had fallen, 
and he looked twenty years older. I.ord Dice had torn 
off his cravat, and his hair hung down over his callous, 
bloodless cheeks, straight as silk. Temple Grace looked 
as if he were blighted by lightning; and his deep blue 
eves gleamed like a hyena's. The Baron was least 
changed. Tom ('ogit, ho smelt that the crisis was at 
hand, was as quiet as a bribed rat. 
On the)" played till six o'clock in the evening, and then 
they agreed to desist till after dinner. Lord Dice threw 
himself on a sofa. Lord Castlcfort breathed with diffi- 
culty. The rest walked about. While they were resting 
on their oars, the young Duke roughly made up his ac- 
count.q. He found that he was miuus about onc hundred 
th,: ;and loun,ls. 



TIllS. PICA'II'ICI'I.I.'t:s" O.V ICE. 3"9 
" Now, then, sir," said Sam, in an encouraging t,nc ; 
"off vith you, and show 'cm how to do it." 
".Stop, Sam, stop! " said 
Icntly, and clutching hold of Sam's arms with the grasp 
of a drowfing man. " How slippery it is, Sam !" 
" Not an uncommon thing upon ice, sir," replied Mr. 
\Ve]ler. " Hold up, sir !" 
This last observation of Mr. \Vel]er's bore reference 
to a demonstration Mr. \Vinkle made at the instant, of a 
frantic desire to throw his feet in the air, and dash the 
back of his head on the ice. 
" These--these--are very awkward skates ; ain't the3-, 
Sam ?" inquired Mr. \Vinkle, staggering. 
'" I'm afeerd there's a orkard genTm'n in 'em, sir," re- 
plied Sam. 
" No,v, Winkle," cried Mr. I'ickwick, quite unconscinus 
that there was anything the matter. " Come ; the ladies 
are all anxiety." 
" Yes, yes," replied Sir. Winkle, with a ghastly smile. 
" I'm coming." 
"Just a goin' to begin," said Sam, endeavoring to dis- 
engage himself. " Now, sir, start off!" 
"Stop an instant, Sam," gasped Mr. Winkle, clinging 
most affectionately to Mr. Wcller. " I find I've got a 
couple of coats at home that I don't want, Sam. You 
may have them, Sam." 
" Thank'ee, sir," replied Mr. \Veller. 
" Never mind touching your hat, Sam," said Ir. 
Winkle, hastily. " You needn't take 5"our hand away to 
do that. I meant to have given you five shillings this 
morning for a Christmas-box, Sam. I'll give it you this 
afternoon, Sam." 
"You're wery good, sir," replied Mr. \Veller. 



THE PICA'VICICI,,:q O.V ICE. 331 
" No, thank you," replied Mr. V(inkle hurrielly. 
'" I really think you had better," said Allen. 
"Thank you," replied Mr. Winkle ; " I'd rather not." 
" \Vhat do .l,au think, Mr. Pickwick ?" inquired Bob 
Savyer. 
Mr. Pickwick was excited and indignant. He beck- 
oned to Mr. \Veller, and said in a stern voice, "Take his 
skates off." 
" .No ; but really I had scarcely begun," remonstrated 
Mr. \Vinkle. 
" Take his skates off," repeated Mr. Pickwick firmly. 
The command was not to be resisted. Mr. Winkle 
allowed Sam to obey it in silence. 
" Lift him up," said Mr. Pickwick. Sam assisted him 
to rise. 
Mr. Pickwick retired a few paces apart from the by- 
standers ; and beckoning his friend to approach, fixed a 
marching look upon him, and u:tercd in a low, but dis- 
tinct and emphatic tone, these remarkable  ords: 
" \'ou're a humbug, sir." 
" A what ?" said Mr. Winkle, starting. 
" A humbug, sir. I will speak plainer, if you wish it. 
An impostor, sir." 
With these vords, Mr. Pickwick turned slovly on his 
heel,- and rejoined his friends. 
While Mr. Pickwick was delivering himself of the sen- 
timent just recorded, Mr. Wellcr and the fat boy, having 
by their joint endeavors cut out a slide, vere exercising 
themselves thereupon, in a very masterly and brilliant 
manner. Sam Weller, in particular, vas displaying that 
beautiful feat of fancy-sliding which is currently denom- 
inated " knocking at the cobbler's door," and which is 
achieved by skimming over the ice on one focrt, and oc- 



THE PICA'H'ICICI.].VA " O.Y ICE. 

333 

closely upon each other's heels, and running after each 
other with as much eagerness as if all their future pros- 
pects in life depended on their expedition. 
It was the most intensely interesting thing, to observe 
the manner in which Mr. Pickwick performed his share in 
the ceremony; to watch the torture of anxiety with 
which he viewed the person behind, gaining upon him at 
the imminent hazard of tripping him up; to see him 
gradually expend the painful force he had put on at first, 
and turn sloxx ly round on the slide, with his face towards 
the point from which he had started ; to contemplate the 
playful smile which mantled on his face when he had ac- 
complished the distance, and the eagerness with which 
he turned round when he had done so, and ran after his 
predecessor : his black gaiters tripping pleasantly through 
the snow, and his eyes beaming cheerfulness and glad- 
ness through his spectacles. And when he was knocked 
down (vhich happened upon the average every third 
round), it was the most invigorating sight that can pos- 
sibly be imagined, to behohl him gather up his hat, 
gloves, and handkerchief, ith a gloxving countenance, 
and resume his station in the rank, with an ardor and en- 
thusiasm that nothing could abate. 
The sport was at its height, the sliding was at the 
quickest, the laughter was at the loudest, when a sharp 
smart crack was heard. There was a quick rush towards 
the bank, a wild scream from the ladies, and a shout 
from Ir. Tupman. A large mass of ice disappeared ; 
the water bubbled up over it ; Mr. Pickwick's hat, gloves, 
and handkerchief were floating on the surface ;_and this 
was all of Mr. Pickwick that anybody could see. 
Dismay and anguish were depicted on every counten- 
ance, the males turned pale, an,l the females f, tintel, 



THE PICKII'ICKL4.VS 0,'*," ICE. 

335 

thcr relieved by the fat boy's suddenly recollecting that 
the water was nowhere more than five feet deep, prodi- 
gies of valor were performed to get him out. After a 
vast quantity of splashing, and cracking, and struggling, 
Mr. Pickwick was at length fairly extricated from his 
unplea.sant position, and once more stood on dry land. 
" Oh, he'll catch his death of cold," said Emily. 
" Dear old thing !" said Arabella. " Let me wrap this 
shawl round you, Mr. Pickwick." 
" Ah, that's the best thing you can do," said V'ardle : 
"and when you've got it on, run home as fast as )'our 
legs can carry you, and jump into bed directly." 
A dozen shawls were offered on the instant. Three or 
four of the thickest having been selected, Mr. Pickick 
was wrapped up, and started off, under the guidance of 
Mr. XVeller : presenting the singular phenomenon of an 
elderly gentleman, dripping wet, and ,ithout a hat, with 
his arms bound down to his sides, skimming over the 
ground, without any clearly defined purpose, at the rate 
of six good English miles an hour. 
But Mr. Pickwick cared not for appearances in such an 
extreme case, and urged on by Sam XVeller, he kept at 
the very top of his speed until he reached the door of 
Manor Farm, where Mr. Tupman had arrived some five 
minutes before, and had frightened the old lady into pal- 
pitations of the heart by impressing her with the unal- 
terable conviction that the kitchen chimney was on fire 
--a calamity which ahvays presented itself in glowing 
colors to the old lady's mind, when anybody about her 
evinced the smallest agitation. 
Mr. Pickwick paused not an instant until he was snug 
in bed. Sam Weller lighted a blazing fire in his room, 
and took up his dinner, and afterwards a great rejoicing 
was held in honor of his safety. 



THE tL.1A'GLVG OF Ttt.E CRAV.E. 

The light of love shines over all ; 
Of love, that sa)s not mine and thine, 
But ours, for ours is thine and mine. 

337 

They want no guests, to come between 
Their tender glances like a screen, 
And tell them tales of land and sea, 
And whatsoever may betide 
The great, forgotten x odd outside ; 
"/'hey want no guests ; they needs must be 
Each other's own best company. 

IlI. 

The picture fades; as at a village fair 
A sho,man's views, dissolving into air, 
Again appear transfigured on the screen, 
So in nay fancy this ; and now once more, 
In part transfigured, through the open door 
Appears the selfsame scene. 

Seated, I see the tx o again, 
But not alone ; they entertain 
A little angel unaware, 
With face as round as is the moon ; 
A royal guest xx ith flaxen hair, 
Who, throned upon his lofty chair, 
I)rums on the table with his spoon, 
Then drops it careless on the floor, 
To grasp at things unseen before. 

Are these celestial manners? these 
The ways that win, the arts that please ? 
Ah yes; consider well the guest, 
And whatsoe'er he does seems best ; 
He rulcth by the right divine 
v 



338 

THE HIGH SCHODL READER. 

Of helplessness, so lately horn 
In purple chambers of the morn, 
As sovereign over thee and thine. 
He speaketh not ; and yet there lies 
A conversation in his eyes ; 
The golden silence of the (;reek, 
The gravest wisdom of the wise, 
Not spoken in language, but in looks 
More legible than printed books, 
As if he could but would not speak. 
And now, O monarch absolute, 
Thy power is put to proof; for, 1o ! 
Resistless, fathomless, and slow, 
The nurse comes rustling like the sea, 
And pushes back thy chair and thee, 
And so good night to King Canute. 

As one who walking in a forest sees 
A lovely landscape through the parted trees, 
Then sees it not, for boughs that intervene ; 
Or, as we see the moon sometimes reveal'd 
Through drifting clouds, and then again conceal'd, 
So I behold the scene. 

There are two guests at table now ; 
The king, deposed and older grown, 
No longer occupies the throne,-- 
The crown is on his sister's brow ; 
A lrincess from the Fair)" Isles, 
The very pattern girl of girls, 
All co er'd and embower'd in curls, 
Rose-tinted from the Isle of Flowers, 
And sailing with soft, silken sails 
From far-off Dreamland into ours. 



THE HANGING 0t; TIlE CRANE. 

Above their bowls with rims of blue 
Four azure eyes of deeper hue 
Are looking, dreamy with delight ; 
Limpid as planets that emerge 
Above the ocean's rounded verge, 
Soft-shining through the summer night. 
Steadfast they gaze, yet nothing see 
Beyond the horizon of their bowls ; 
IX'or care they for the world that rolls 
With all its freight of troubled souls 
Into the days that are to be. 

339 

Again the tossing boughs shut out the scene, 
Again the drifting vapors intervene, 
And the moon's pallid disk is hidden quite : 
And now I see the table wider grown, 
As round a pebble into water thrown 
Dilates a ring of light. 

I see the table wider grown, 
I see it garlanded with guests, 
As if fair Ariadne's Crown 
Out of the sky had fallen down ; 
Maidens within whose tender breasts 
A thousand restless hopes and fears, 
Forth reaching to the coming years, 
Flutter awhile, then quiet lie, 
Like timid birds that fain would fly, 
But do not dare to leave their nests ;- 
And )ouths, who in their strength elate 
Challenge the van and front of fate, 
Eager as champions to be 
In the divine knight-errantry 
Of youth, that travels sea and land 



340 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 

Seeking adventures, or pursues, 
Through cities, and through solitudes 
Frequented by the lyric Muse, 
The phantom with the beckoning hand, 
That still allures and still eludes. 
O sweet illusions of the brain ! 
( sudden thrills of fire and frost ! 
The world is bright while ye remain, 
And dark and dead when ye are lost ! 

The meadow-brook, that seemeth to stand still, 
Quickens its current as it nears the lnill ; 
And so the stream of Time that lingereth 
In level places, and .o dull appears, 
Runs with a swifter current as it nears 
The gloomy mills of I eath. 

And now, like the magician's scroll, 
That in the owner's keeping shrinks 
With every wish he speaks or thinks, 
Till the last wish consumes the whole, 
The table dwindles, and again 
I see the two alone remain. 
The crown of stars is broken in parts ; 
Its jewels, brighter than the day, 
Have one by one been stolen away 
To shine in other homes and hearts. 
One is a wanderer now afar 
In Ceylon or in Zanzibar, 
Or sunny regions of Cathay ; 
And one is in the boisterous camp 
IXIid clink of arms and horses' tramp, 
And battle's terrible array. 
I see the patient mother read, 



THE I-tANGING OF THE CRA.VE. 

With aching heart, of wrecks that float 
Disabled on those seas remote, 
Or of some great heroic deed 
On battle-fields, where thousands bleed 
To lift one hero into fame. 
Anxious she bends her graceful head 
Above these chronicles of pain, 
And trembles with a secret dread 
Lest there anaong the drown'd or slain 
She find the one beloved name. 

VII. 
After a day of cloud and wind and rain 
Sometimes the setting sun breaks out again, 
And, touching all the darksome woods with light. 
Smiles on the fields, until they laugh and sing, 
Then like a ruby from the horizon's ring 
Drops down into the night. 

What see I now ? The night is fair, 
The storm of grief, the clouds of care, 
The wind, the rain, have pass'd away ; 
The lamps are lit, the fires burn bright, 
The house is full of life and light : 
It is the Golden Wedding day. 
The guests come thronging in once more, 
Quick footsteps sound along the floor, 
The trooping children crowd the stair, 
And in and out and everywhere 
Flashes along the corridor 
The sunshine of their golden hair. 

On the round table in the hall 
Another Ariadne's Crown 
Out of the sky hath fallen down ; 
More than one Monarch of the Moon 

341 



EARTHII "OR.IIS. 

343 

mould is in constant though slow movement, and the 
particles composing it are thus rubbed together. By 
these means fiesh surfaces are continually exposed to 
the action of the carbonic acid in the soil, and of the 
humus-acids which appear to be still more efficient in 
the decomposition of rocks. The generation of the 
humus-acids is probably hastened during the digestion 
of the many half-decayed leaves which worms consume. 
Thus the particles of earth, forming the superficial 
mould, a,e subjected to conditions eminently favorable 
for their decomposition and disintegration, lIoreover, 
the particles of the softer rocks suffer some amount of 
mechanical trituration in the muscular gizzards of worms, 
in which small stones serve as mill-stones. 
Archaeologists ought to be grateful to worms, as they 
protect and preserve for an indefinitely long period every 
object, not liable to decay, which is dropped on the sur- 
face of the land, by burying it beneath their castings. 
Thus, also, many elegant and curious tesselated pave- 
ments and other ancient remai,s have been preserved; 
though no doubt the worms have in these cases been 
largely aided by earth washed and blown from the ad- 
joining land, especially when cultivated. The old tesse- 
lated pavements have, however: often suffered by having 
subsided unequally from being unequally undermined by 
the worms. Even old massive walls may be undermined 
and subside ; and no building is in this respect safe, un- 
less the foundations lie six or seven feet beneath the sur- 
face, at a depth at which worms cannot work. It is pro- 
bable that many monoliths and some old walls have 
fallen down from having been undermined by worms. 
Worms prepare the ground in an excellent manner for 
the growth of fibrous-rooted plants and for seedli,gs of 



prevent or check the rain-water directly entering them. 
They allow the air to penetrate deeply into the ground. 
They also greatly facilitate the downward passage of 
roots of moderate size ; and these will be nourished by 
the humus with which the burrows are lined, lXIanv 
seeds owe their germination to having been covered by 
castings ; and others buried to a considerable depth be- 
neath accumulated castings lie dormant, until at some 
future time they are accidentally uncovered and ger- 
minate. 
\Vorms are poorly provided with sense-organs, for 
they cannot be said to see, although they can just dis- 
tinguish between light and darkness; they are com- 
pletely dca and have only a feeble power of smell ; the 
sense oftouch alone is well developed. The)" can therefore 
learn little about the outside world, and it is surprising 
that they should exhibit some skill in lining their bur- 
rows witch their castings and with leaves, anl in the case 
of some species fn piling up their castings into tower-like 
constructions. But it is far more surprising that they 
should apparently exhibit some degree of intelligence 
instead of a mere blind instinctive impulse, in their man- 
ncr of plugging up the mouths of their burrows. They 
act in nearly the same manner as would a man, who had 
to close a cylindrical tube with different kinds of leaves, 
petioles, triangles of paper, etc., for they commonly seize 
such objects by their pointed ends. But with thin ob- 
jects a certain number are drawn hi by their broader 
ends. They do not act in the same unvarying manner 
in all cases, as do most of the lower animals; or in- 
stance, they do not drag in leaves by their foot-stalks, 
unless the basal part c,f the blade is as narrow as the 
apex, or narrc, wer than it. 



346 

7HE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 

When we behold a wide, turf-covered expanse, we 
should remember that its smoothness, on which so much 
of its beauty depends, is mainly due to all the inequali- 
ties having been slowly levelled by worms. It is a mar- 
vcllous reflection that the whole of the superficial mould 
over any such expanse has passed, and will again pass, 
every few )'cars, through the bodies of worms. The 
plough is one of the most ancient and most valuable of 
man's inventions; but long before he existed the land 
xvas in fact regularly ploughed, and still continues to be 
thus ploughed by earth-worms. It may be doubted 
whether there are many other animals which have played 
so important a part in the history of the world, as have 
these lowly organized creatures. 

LXIX. "AS SHIPS, BECALMED AT EVE." 

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGIL--1819-1861. 
As ships, becalm'd at eve, that lay . 
With canvas drooping, side by side, 
Two towers of sail at dawn of day 
Are scarce long leagues almrt descried ; 
When fell the night, upsprung the breeze, 
And all the darkling hours they plied, 
Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas 
By each was cleaving, side by side : 
E'en so--but why the tale reveal 
Of those, whom )'ear by year unchanged, 
Brief absence join'd anew to feel, 
Astounded, soul from soul estranged ? 



DUTI: 

At dead of night their sails were fill'd, 
And onward each rejoicing steer'd-- 
Ah, neither blame, for neither will'd, 
Or wist, what first with dawn appear'd 

To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain, 
Brave barks ! In light, in darkness too, 
Through winds and tides one compass guides-- 
To that, md )our own selves, be true. 

But O blithe breeze ! and O great seas, 
Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, 
On your wide plain they join again, 
Together lead them home at last. 

One port, methought, alike they sought, 
One purpose hold where'er they fare,-- 
O bounding breeze, O rushing seas ! 
At last, at last, unite them there. 

347 

LXX. DUTY. 

DuTy--that's to say, complying 
With whate'er's expected here ; 
On your unknown cousin's dying, 
Straight be ready with the tear ; 
Upon etiquette relying, 
Unto usage nought denying, 
Lend your waist to be embraced, 
Blush not even, never fear ; 
Claims of kith and kin connection, 
Claims of manners honor still, 



35o HE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 

III. 

Hush'd in a calm beyond mine utterance, 
See in the western sky the evening spread ; 
Suspended in its pale, serene expanse, 
Like scatter'd flames, the glowing cloudlets red. 
Clear are those clouds ; and that pure sky's profound, 
Transparent as a lake of hyaline ; 
Nor motion, nor the faintest breath of sound, 
Disturbs the steadfast beauty of the scene. 
Far o'er the vault, the winnow'd welkin wide, 
From the bronzed east unto the whiten'd west, 
Moor'd, seem, in their sweet, tranquil, roseate pride, 
Those clouds the fabled islands of the blest ;- 
The lands where pious spirits breathe in joy, 
And love and worship all their hours employ. 

LXXII. DOCTOR ARNOLD AT RUGBY. 

ARTHUR PEN'RHYN TANLEY.--ISI_.r880. 

WITH his usual and undoubting confidence in what he 
believed to be a general law of Providence, he based his 
whole management of the school on his early-formed 
and yearly-increasing conviction that what he had to 
look for, both intellectually and morally, was not perfor- 
mance but promise ; that the very freedom and indepen- 
dence of school life, which in itself he thought so danger- 
ous, might be made the best preparation for Christian 
manhood ; and he did not hesitate to apply to his scholars 
the principle which seemed to him to have been adopted 
in the training of the childhood of the human race 



DOCTOR ARNOLD .,'1 T RUG.B Y. 35 l 
itself. He shrunk from pressing on the conscience of 
boys rules of action which he felt they were not yet 
able to bear, and from enforcing actions which, though 
right in themselves, would in boys be performed trom 
wrong motives. Keenly as he felt the risk and fatal con- 
sequences of the failure of this trial, still it was his great, 
sometimes his only support to believe that "the character 
is braced amid such scenes to a greater beauty and firm- 
ness than it ever can attain without enduring and wit- 
nessing them. Our work here would be absolutely un- 
endurable if we did not bear in mind that we should 
look forward as well as backward--if we did not re- 
member that the victor)" of fallen man lies not in inno- 
cence but in tried virtue." " I hold fast," he said, "to the 
great truth, that ' blessed is he that overcometh ;' " and 
he writes in I837 : " Of all the painful things connected 
with my employment, nothing is equal to the grief of 
seeing a boy come to school innocent and promising, and 
tracing the corruption of his character from the influ- 
ence of the temptations around him, in the very place 
which ought to have strengthened and improved it. But 
in most cases those who come with a character of posi- 
tive good are benefited ; it is the neutral and indecisive 
characters which are apt to be decided for evil by schools, 
as they would be in fact by any other temptation." 
But this very feeling led him with the greater eagerness 
to catch at every means by xvhich the trial might be short- 
ened or alleviated. "Can the change from childhood to 
manhood be hastened, without prematurely exhausting 
the faculties of body or mind ?" was one of the chief 
questions on which his mind was constantly at xvork, and 
which in the judgment of some he was disposed to answer 
too readil), in the affirmative. It was with the elder bo)'s, 



354 TIlE ttlGH SCHOOL READER. 

LXXIII. ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND. 

CHARLES 
WELCOME, wild North-easter 
Shame it is to see 
Odes to every zephyr ; 
Ne'er a verse to thee. 
Welcome, black North-easter! 
O'er the German foam 
O'er the Danish moorlands, 
From thy frozen home. 
Tired we are of summer, 
Tired of gaudy glare, 
Showers soft and steaming, 
Hot and breathless air. 
Tired of listless dreaming 
Through the lazy day : 
Jovial wind of winter 
Turns us out to play! 
Sweep the golden reed-beds ; 
Crisp the lazy dyke ; 
Hunger into madness 
Ever)" plunging pike. 
Fill the lake with wild-fowl ; 
Fill the marsh with snipe ; 
While on dreary moorlands 
Lonely curlew pipe. 
Through the black fir-forest 
Thunder harsh and dry, 
Shattering down the snow-flakes 
Off the curdled sky. 
Hark  The brave North-easter 
Breast-high lies the scent, 



ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST It'IND. 

On by holt and headland, 
Over heath and bent. 
Chime, ye dappled darlings, 
Through the sleet and snow. 
Who can over-ride you ? 
Let the horses go ! 
Chime, ye dappled darlings, 
Down the roaring blast ; 
You shall see a fox die 
Ere an hour be past. 
Go ! and rest to-morrow, 
Hunting in your dreams, 
While our skates are ringing 
O'er tk, e frozen streams. 
Let the luscious South-wind 
Breathe in lovers' sighs, 
While the lazy gallants 
Bask in ladies' eyes. 
What does he but soften 
Heart alike and pen ? 
'Tis the hard grey weather 
Breeds hard English men. 
What's the soft South-vester ? 
'Tis the ladies' breeze, 
Bringing home their true-loves 
Out of all the seas. 
But the black North-easter, 
Through the snow-storm hurl'd, 
Drives our English hearts of oak 
Seaward round the world. 
Come, as came our fathers, 
Heralded by thee, 
Conquering from the eastward 
Lords by land and sea. 

355 



356 

Till:" tlIGtl SCHOOL RE./IDER. 

Come ; and strong within us 
Stir the Vikings' blood, 
Bracing brain and sinew; 
]3low, thou wind of God ! 

LXXIV. FROI " THE MILL ON THE FLOSS." 

(JEORGE ELIOT.--It820-I8O. 

THE next morning Maggie was trotting with her own 
fishing-rod in one hand and a handle of the basket in the 
other, stepping ahvays, by a peculiar gift, in the muddiest 
placcs, and looking darkly radiant from undcr her beaver 
bonnet because Tom was good to hcr. She had told 
Tom, however, that she should like him to put the worms 
on thc hook for her, although she accepted his word when 
he assurcd hcr that worms couldn't feel (it was Tom's 
private opinion that it didn't much matter if they did). 
He knew all about worms, and fish, and those things; 
and what birds were mischievous, and how padlocks 
opened, and v:hich way the handles of the gates were to 
bc lifted. Maggie thought this sort of knowledge was 
very wonderful--much more difficult than remembering 
what was in the books; and she was rather in awe of 
Tom's superiority, for he was the only pcrsoa who callcd 
hcr knowledge "stuff," and did not feel surpriscd at hcr 
clevcrness. Tom, indeed, was of opinion that Maggie 
was a sill)" little thing ; all girls we,-e sill)- -_ they couldn't 
throw a stone so as to hit anything, couldn't do anything 
with a pocket-knife, and were frightened at frogs. Still, 
hc was very fond of his sister, and meant always to take 



358 

THE HIGH SCHOOL RE./]DEIP. 

It was one of their happy mornings. They trotted 
along and sat down together, with no thought that life 
would ever change much for them : they would only get 
bigger and not go to school, and it would always be like 
the holidays; they would always live together and be 
fond of each other. And the mill with its booming--the 
great chestnut-tree under which they played at houses-- 
their own little river, the Pipple, where the banks seemed 
like home, and Tom was always seeing the water-rats, 
while Maggie gathered the purple plumy tops of the 
reeds, which she forgot and dropped afterward--above 
all, the great Floss, along which they wandered with a 
sense of travel, to see the rushing spring-tide, the awful 
Eagre, come up like a hungry monster, or to see the 
Great .Ash which had once wailed and groaned like a 
man--these things would always be just the same to 
them. Tom thought people were at a disadvantage who 
lived on any other spot of the globe ; and Maggie, when 
she read about Christiana passing "the river over which 
there is no bridge," always saw the Floss between the 
green pastures by the Great Ash. 
Life did change for Tom and Maggie; and yet they 
were not wrong in believing that the thoughts and loves 
of these first years would always make part of their lives. 
We could never have loved the earth so well if we had 
had no childhood in it--if it were not the earth where 
the same floxvers come up again every spring that we 
used to gather with our tiny fingers as we sat lisping to 
ourselves on the grass--the same hips and haws on the 
autumn hedgerows--the same red-breasts that we used 
to call " God's birds," because they did no harm to the 
precious crops. \Vhat novelty i worth that sweet mono- 
tony where everything is known, and lo,ed because it 
known ? 



360 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 

Still we say as we go,- 
"Strange to think by the way, 
Whatever there is to know, 
That shall we know one day." 

The Past is over and fled : 
Named new, we name it the old ; 
Thereof some tale hath been told, 
But no word comes from the dead ; 
Whether at all the)" be, 
Or hether as bond or free, 
Or whether they too were we, 
Or by what spell they have sped. 
Still we say as we go,-- 
"Strange to think by the way, 
Whatever there is to know, 
That shall we know one day." 

What of the heart of hate 
That beats in thy breast, 0 Time ?- 
Red strife from the furthest prime, 
And anguish of fierce debate ; 
V ar that shatters her slain, 
And peace that grinds then as grain, 
And eyes fix'd ever in vain 
On the pitiless eyes of Fate. 
Still we say as we go,-- 
" Strange to think by the way, 
Whatever there is to know, 
That shall we know one day." 

What of the heart of love 
That bleeds in thy breast, O Man ?-- 
Thy kisses snatch'd "neath the ban 
Of lang., that mo-k them above ; 



36z THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 

Fair as a garden of the Lord 
To the eyes of the famish'd rebel horde, 

(On that pleasant morn of the early fall 
When Lee march'd over the mountain wall,-- 

Over the mountains winding down, 
Horse and foot, into Frederick town. 

Forty flags with their silver stars, 
Forty flags with their crimson bars, 

Flapp'd in the morning wind : the sun 
noon look'd down, and saw not one. 

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, 
Bow'd with her fourscore years and ten ; 

Bravest of all in Frederick town, 
She took up the flag the men haul'd down ; 

In her attic-window the staff she set, 
To show that one heart was loyal yet. 

Up the street came the rebel tread, 
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 

Under his slouch'd hat left and right 
tic glanced : the old flag met his sight. 
'" Halt ! "--the dust-brown ranks stood fast 
"" Fire ! "--out blazed the rifle-blast. 

It shiver'd the window, pane and sash ; 
It rent the banner with seam and gash. 
Quick, as it fell, fro:n the broken staff 
Iamc larl,ara snat,h'd the silken scarf; 



BARBARA FRIE TCttIE. 

She lean'd far out on the window-sill, 
And shook it forth with a royal will. 

" Shoot, if you must, this old grey head, 
But spare your countr)"s flag !" she said. 

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, 
Over the face of the leader came ; 

The nobler nature within him stirr'd 
To life at that woman's deed and word." 

"Who touches a hair of yon grey head, 
Dies like a dog ! March on !" he saic[ 

.dl day long through Frederick street 
Sounded the tread of marching feet : 

All day long that free flag toss'd 
Over the heads of the rebel host. 

Ever its torn folds rose and fell 
On the loyal winds that lov'd it well ; 

And through the hill-gaps sunset light 
Shone over it with a warm good-night. 

Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, 
And the Rebel rides on his raids no more 

Honor to her ! and let a tear 
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. 

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, 
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave! 

363 



CONTENT, IIENT. 

Honors are silly toys, I know, 
And titles are but empty names ; 
I would, ;erhas, be Plenipo,-- 
But only near St. James ; 
I'm very sure I should not care 
To fill our Gubernator's chair. 

Jewels are baubles ; 'tis a sin 
"Fo care for such unfruitful things 
One good-sized diamond in a pin,-- 
Some, not so lqr% in rings,-- 
A ruby, and a pearl, or so, 
Will do for me ;--I laugh at show. 

My dame should dress in cheap attire ; 
(Good, heavy.silks are never dear ;)-- 
I own perhaps I might desire 
Some shawls of true Cashmere,-- 
Some marrowy crapes of China silk, 
Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk. 

365 

I would not have the horse I drive 
So fast that folks must stop and stare ; 
An easy gait--t o, forty-five-- 
Suits me ; I do not care,- 
Perhaps for just a st)tgle sur', 
Some seconds less would do no hurt. 

Of pictures I should like to own 
Titians and Raphaels three or four,-- 
I love so much their style and tone,-- 
One Turner, and no more, 
(A landscape,--foreground golden dirt,-- 
The sunshine painted with a squirt.) 



THE BRITISH CONSTITUTIO.A: 367 

LXXVIII. THE BRITISH CONSTITUTION. 

THE RIGHT HON. WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE.--I8O 9- 
From KIN BEYOND SEA. 
THE Constitution has not been the offspring of the 
thought of man. The Cabinet, and all the present re- 
lations of the Constitutional powers in this country, have 
grown into their present dimensions, and settled into 
their present places, not as the fruit of a philosophy, not 
in the effort to give effect to an abstract principle ; but 
by the silent action of forces, invisible and insensible, the 
structure has come up into the view of all the world. It 
is, perhaps, the most conspicuous object on the wide 
political horizon; but it has thus risen, without noise, 
like the temple of Jerusalem. 
" No workman steel, no ponderous hammers rung ; 
Like some tall palm the stately fabric sprung." 
When men repeat the proverb which teaches us that 
" marriages are made in heaven," what they mean is that, 
in the most fundamental of all social operations, the 
building up of the family, the issues involved in the 
nuptial contract, lie beyond the best exercise of human 
thought, and the unseen forces of providential govern- 
ment make good the defect in our imperfect capacity. 
Even so would it seem to have been in that curious mar- 
riage of competing influences and powers, which brings 
about the composite harmony of the British Constitution. 
More, it must be admitted, than any other, it leaves open 
doors which lead into blind alleys ; for it presumes, more 
boldly than any other, the good sense and good faith of 
those who work it. If, unhappily, these personages meet 



37o THE HIGH SCHOOL 

LXXIX. THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. 

LORD TENNYON.--XSOg- 
I' her ear he whispers gayly, 
'" If my heart by signs can tell, 
Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily, 
And I think thou lov'st me well." 
She replies, in accents fainter, 
"There is none I love like thee." 
I-Ie is but a landscape-painter, 
And a village maiden she. 
I-Ie to lips, that fondly falter, 
Presses his without reproof: 
Leads her to the village altar, 
And they leave her father's roof. 
" I can make no marriage present; 
Little can I give my wife. 
Love will make our cottage pleasant, 
And I love thee more than life." 
They by parks and lodges going 
See the lordly castles stand : 
Summer woods, about them blo'ing, 
Made a murmur in the land. 
From deep thought himself he rouses 
Says to her that loves him well, 
"Let us see these handsome houses 
Where the wealthy nobles dwell." 
So she goes by him attended, 
Hears him lovingly converse, 
Sees whatever fair and splendid 
Iay bet,s-ixt his home and hers ; 
Parks with oak and chestnut shad)-, 
Parks and order'd gardens great, 
Ancient homes of lord and lad)-, 
Built for pleasure and for st.ttc. 



TIlE .LORD OF BURLEIGAr. 

All he shows her makes him dearer : 
Evermore she seems to gaze 
On that cottage growing nearer, 
Where they twain will spend their days. 
0 but she will love him truly! 
He shall have a cheerful home ; 
She will order all things duly, 
When beneath his roof they come. 
Thus her heart rejoices greatly, 
Till a gateway she discerns 
With armorial bearings stately, 
And beneath the gate she turns; 
Sees a mansion more majestic 
Than all those she saw before: 
Many a gallant gay domestic 
Bows before him at the door. 
And they speak in gentle murmur, 
When they answer to his call, 
While he treads with footsteps firmer, 
Leading on from hall to hall. 
And, while now she wonders blindly, 
Nor the meaning can divine, 
Proudly turns he round and kindly, 
"All of this is mine and thine." 
Here he lives in state and bounty, 
Lord of Burleigh, fair and free, 
Not a lord in all the county 
Is so great a lord as he. 
All at once the color flushes 
Her sweet face from brow to chin : 
As it were with shame she blushes, 
And her spirit changed within. 
Then her countenance all over 
Pale again as death did prove ; 
But he clasl;d her like a lover, 
And he chcer'd her soul with love 

37I 



"BREM&', BREAK, BREAK." 373 

LXXX. "BREAK, BREAK, BREAK." 

LORD TENNYSON. 
BRr'.K, break, break, 
On thy cold gray stones, 0 Sea '. 
And I would that my tongue could utter 
The thoughts that arise in me. 
0 well for the fisherman's boy, 
Timt he shouts with his sister at play! 
(-) well for the sailor lad, 
That h sings in his boat on the bay! 
And the stately ships go on 
To their haven under the hill ; 
But 0 for the touch of a vanish'd hand, 
And the sound of a voice that is still! 
Break, break, break, 
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 
Will never come back to me. 

LXXXI. THE "REVENGE." 

A B-X.LLAD OF THE FLEET. i59I. 
LORD TENNYSON. 
AT Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay, 
And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away : 
"Spanish ships of war at sea ! we have sighted fifty-three !" 
Then sware Lord Thomas Howard : "'Fc;re God I am no coward! 
But I cannot meet them here, for nay ships are out of gear, 



THE "RE VENGE." 

375 

Thousands of their soldiers look'd down" from their decks and 
laugh'd, 
Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft 
Running on and on, till delay'd 
By their mountain-like "San Philip" that, of fifteen hundred tons, 
And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns, 
Took the breath from our sails, and we stay'd. 

And while now.the great "San Philip" hung above us like a cloud 
XX hence the thunderbolt will fall 
Long and loud, 
Four galleons drew away 
From the Spanish fleet that day, 
And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay, 
And the battle-thunder broke from them all. 

But anon the great "San Philip," she bethought herself and went, 
Having that within her womb that had left her ill-content ; 
And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand to 
hantl, 
For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musqueteers, 
And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes his ears 
When he leaps from-the water to the land. 

And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the 
summer sea, 
But never a moment ceas'd the fight of the one and the fifty-three. 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons 
came, 
Ship after ship, the wtole night long, with their battle-thunder 
and flame ; 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead 
and her shame; 
For some were sunk and many were shatter'd, and so could fight 
us no more-- 
God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before ? 



376 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 
For he said, "Fight on ! fight on !" 
Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck ; 
.And it chanced that, when half of the summer night was gone, 
With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck, 
But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead, 
And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head, 
And he said, '" Fight on ! fight on !" 
.And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the 
sunlnlt:r st:a, 
And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us al in a ring; 
But they dared not touch us again, for they fea'd that e still 
q_ould sting, 
So they watch'd what the end would be. 
And we had not fought them in vain, 
But in perilous plight were we, 
Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, 
And half of the rest of us maim'd for life 
In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife ; 
And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark 
and cold, 
And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all 
of it spent ; 
And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side ; 
lut Sir Richard cried in his English pride, 
"We have fought such a fight for a day and a night 
As may never be fought again ! 
We have won great glory, nay men '. 
And a day less or more 
At sea or shore, 
We die--does it matter when ? 
Sink me the ship, Master Gunner---sink her, split her in twain '. 
Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain !" 
And the gunner said, "Ay, ay," but the seamen made reply : 
"We have children, we have wives, 



378 THE HI;tt NCHOOL REqDEA'. 

! 
LXXXII. IERVE RIEL. 

ROBERT iJROIVN ING.ISI2- 

ON the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, 
1 rid the English fight the French,--woe to France ! 
And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue, 
l.ike a crowd of frightend porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, 
Came crossding ship on ship to St..Ialo on the Rance, 
With the English fleet in view. 

"Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase ; 
First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfre- 
ville ; 
Close on him fled, great and small, 
"l'-ent)--two good ships in all ; 
And they signaWd to the place 
" Hel l, the winners of a race! 
 ;et us guidance , give us harbor, take us quick :--or, quicker 
still, 
Here's the English can and will !" 

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board: 
" Why, what hope or chance have ships lik6 these to pass?" 
laugh'd the),: 
"Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarr'd and 
scored, 
Shall the ,rmidable here with her twelve and eighty guns 
Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, 
Trust to enter xhere 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, 
And with flow at full beside ? 
Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. 
Reach the mooring ? Rather say, 
While rock stands or water runs, 
Not a ship will leave the bay !" 



3o 

THE HIGH SCHOOL READEI. 

Burn the fleet and ruin France ? That were worse than 
fifty Hogues ! 
Sirs, they know I speak the truth ! Sirs, believe me 
there's a way ! 
Only let me lead the line, 
Have the biggest ship to steer, 
Get this ]ormidabh" clear, 
Make the others follow mine, 
And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well, 
Right to Solidor past Grve, 
And there lay them safe and sound ; 
And if one ship misbehave,-- 
Keel so muh as grate the ground,-- 
Why, I've nothing but my life,--here's my head '." cries Herv 
Riel. 

Not a minute more to wait. 
'" Steer us in, then, small and great ! 
Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron !" cried its 
chief. 
C'aptains, give the sailor place ! 
He is admiral, in brief. 
Still the north-wind, by God's grace ! 
See the noble fellow's face 
As the big ship, with a bound, 
Clears the entry like a hound, 
Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's pro- 
found ! 
See, safe through shoal and rock, 
How they follow in a flock ! 
Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, 
Not a spar that comes to grief! 
The peril, see, is p.ast ] 
All are harbor'd to the last ! 
And just as Herv Rid hollas "Anchor '."--sure as fate 
Up the English come,--too late ! 



HER I'I " RIEL. 

38, 

So, the'storm subsides to calm : 
They see the green trees wave 
On the heights o'erlooking Grbve. 
Hearts that bled are stanch'd with balm. 
"Just our rapture to enhance, 
Let the English rake the bay, 
Gnash their teeth and glare askance 
As they cannonade axay ! 
'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance '." 
Now hope succeeds despair on each captain's countenance 
Out burst all with one accord, 
"This is Paradise for Hell ! 
Let France, let France's king, 
Thank the man that did the thing!" 
What a shout, and all one word, 
" Herv6 Rid !" 
As he stepp'd in front once more, 
Not a symptom of surprise 
In the frank blue Breton eyes,-- 
Just the same man as before. 

Then said Damfreville, " My friend, 
I must speak out at the end, 
Though I find the speaking hard. 
Praise is deeper than the lips ; 
You have sa'ed the king his ships, 
You must name your own reward. 
'Faith our sun was near eclipse ! 
Demand whate'er you will, 
France remains your debtor still. 
Ask to heart's content, and have ! or my name's not Damfreville." 

Then a beam of fun outbroke 
On the bearded mouth that spoke, 
As the honest heart laugh'd through 
Those frank eyes of Breton blue : 



SON:VET--OUR I.DEAZ 383 

LXXXIII. SO1TNET. 

PRESIDENT VILSON.---XSI6.- 
GREAT things were ne'er begotten in an hour ; 
Ephemerons in birth, are such in life ; 
And he who dareth, in the noble strife 
Of intellects, to cope for real power,- 
Such as God giveth as His rarest dower 
Of mastery, to the few with greatness rife,-- 
Must, ere the morning mists have ceased to lower 
Till the long shadows of *he night arrive, 
Stand in the arena. Laurels that are won, 
Pluck'd from green boughs, soon wither ; those that last 
Are gather'd patiently, when sultry noon 
And sunamer's fie D' glare in vain are past. 
Life is the hour of labor ; on Earth's breast 
Serene and undisturb'd shall be thy rest. 

LXXXIV. OUR IDEAL. 

PRESIDENT ,,'ll ;O.. 
Dlr, ever on painter's canvas live 
The power of his fancy's dream ? 
Did ever poet's pen achieve 
Fruition of his theme ? 
Did marble ever take the life 
That the sculptor's soul conceiv'd ? 
Or ambition win in passion's strife 
What its glowing hopes belicv'd ? 
Did ever racer's eager feet 
Rest as he reach'd 2he goal, 
Finding the prize achiev'd was meet 
To tisfy his soul ? 



$84 TH HIGH 'C-HOOL RADR. 

LXXXV. FROM THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 

BENJ.MIIN JOWETT.--ISI 7- 
Frora "['I-IE DI LOGIJES OF PLATO. 
NOT much time will be gained, O Athenians, in return 
for the evil name which you will get from the dctractors 
of the city, who will say that you killed Socratcs, a vise, 
man ; for thcy will call mc wise, even although I am not 
wise, when they  ant to reproach you. If you had vaited 
a littlc whilc, your desire would have been fulfilled in the 
course of nature. For I am far advanced in years, as you 
may perceive, and not far from death. I am speaking 
now only to those of you who have condemned me to 
death. And I have another thing to say to them : You 
think that I was convicted through dcficicncy of words 
I mcan, that if I had thought fit to leave nothing undone, 
nothing unsaid, I might have gained an acquittal. Not 
so; the deficiency which led to my conviction was not 
of xvords--certainly not. But I had not the boldness or 
impudence or inclination to address you as you would 
have liked me to address you, weeping and wailing and 
lamenting, and saying and doing man), things which you 
have been accustomed to hear from others, and which, 
as I say, are unworthy of me. But I thought that I 
ought not to do anything common or mean in the hour 
of danger: nor do I now repent of the manner of my 
defense, and I would rather die having spoken after my 
manner, than speak in )'our manner and live. For neither 
in war nor yet at law ought any man to use every vay 
of escaping death. For often in battle there is no doubt 
that if a man will throw away his arms, and fall on his 
knees before his pursuers, he may escape death ; and in 



386 

THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 

Friends, who would have acquitted me, I would like 
also to talk with you about this thing which has hap- 
pened, xvhile the magistrates are busy, and before I ga 
to the place at which I must die. Stay then a while, for 
we may as well talk with one another while there is time. 
You are my friends, and I should like to shoxv you the 
meaning of this event which has happened to me. 0 my 
judges--for you I may truly call judges--I should like 
to tell you of a xvondcrful circumstance. Hitherto the 
familiar oracle within me has constantly been in the habit 
of opposing me even about trifles, if I was going to make 
a slip or error about anything ; and now as you see there 
has come upon me that which may be thought, and is 
generally believed to be, the last and worst evil. But the 
racle made no sign of opposition, either as I was leaving 
m)" house and going out in the morning, or when I was 
going up into this-court, or while I was speaking, at any- 
thing which I was going to say ; and yet I have often 
been stopped in the middle of a speech, but now in no- 
thing I either said or did touching this matter has the 
oracle opposed me. What do I take to be the explana- 
tion of this? I will tell you. I regard this as a proof 
that what has happened to me is a good, and that those 
-f us who think that death is an evil are in error. This 
is a great proof to me of what I am saying, for the cus- 
tomary sign wouhi surely have opposed me had I becn 
going to evil and not to good. 
Let us reflect in another way, and we shall see that 
there is great reason to hope that death is a good, for one 
of two things : either death is a state of nothingness and 
utter unconsciousness, or, as men say, there is a change 
and migration of the soul from this-world to another 
Now if yotl suppo,sc lhat there is no consciousness, but a 



TIlE E IlPIRE OF TIlE C.ESARS. 39 

LXXXVI. THE EIdPIRE OF THE C/ESARS. 

JAMES AN.THONg" FROUDE.--xSIS- 
)'otlt CtlSA R. 
Ov Cesar it may be said that he came into the world 
at a special time and for a special object. The old re- 
ligions were dead, from the Pillars of Hercules to the 
Euphrates and the Nile, and the principles on which hu- 
man society had been constructed were dead also. There 
remained of spiritual comiction only the common and 
human sense of justice and morality; and out of this 
sense some ordered system of government had to be con- 
structed, under which quiet men could live, and labor, and 
eat the fruit of their industry. Under a rule of this ma- 
terial kind there can be no enthusiasm, no chivalry, no 
saintly aspirations, no patriotism of the heroic type. It 
was not to last forever. A new life was about to dawn 
for mankind. 19oetry, and faith, and devotion were to 
spring again out of the seeds which were sleeping in the 
heart of humanity. But the life which is to endure 
grows slowly; and as the soil must be prepared before 
the wheat can be sown, so before the Kingdom of Heaven 
could throw up its shoots there was needed a kingdom of 
this world where the nations were neither torn in pieces 
by violence nor were rushing after false ideals and spuri- 
ous ambitions. Such a kingdom was the Empire of the 
Cmsars--a kingdom where peaceful men could work, 
think, and speak as they pleased, and travel freely among 
provinces ruled for the most part by Gallios who pro- 
tected life and property, and forbade fanatics to tear each 
other in pieces for their religious opinions. :'It is not 
lawful for us to put any man to death," was the com- 



OF THE tlYSTERY OF LIFE. 39 l 
and labors of life are fulfilled in this spirit of stri,-ing 
against misrule, and doing whatever we have to do, honor- 
ably and perfectly, the)- invariably bring happiness, as 
much as seems possible to the nature of man. In all other 
paths, b.y which that happi,ess is pursued, there is disap- 
pointment, or destruction : for ambition and for passion 
there is no rest--no fruition ; the fairest pleasures of youth 
perish in a darkness greater than their past light : and 
the loftiest and purest love too often does but inflame the 
cloud of life with endless fire of pain. But, ascending 
from lowest to highest, through ever)- scale of human in- 
dustry, that industr)"  orthily followed, gives peace. Ask 
the laborer in the field, at the forge, or in the mine ; ask 
the patient, delicate-fingered artisan, or the strong-armed, 
fier)'-hearted worker in bronze, and in marble, and with 
the colors of light : and none cf these, who are true work- 
men, will ever tell you, that the)- have found the law of 
heaven an unkind one--that in the sweat of their face 
they should eat bread, till the)" return to the ground ; nor 
that the)" ever found it an unrewarded obedience, if, in- 
deed, it was rendered faithfully to the command '" What- 
soever thy hand findeth to do--do it with thy might." 
These are the two great and constatlt lessons which our 
laborers teach us of the myster)" of life. But there is an- 
other, and a sadder one, which the)" cannot teach us, 
which we must read on their tombstones. 
" Do it with thy might_" There have been myriads 
upon myriads of human creatures who have obeyed this 
law--whohave put ever)" breath and netae of their being 
into its toil--who have devoted ever)" hour, and ex- 
hausted ever)" faculty--who have bequeathed their unac- 
complished thoughts at deathwho being dead, have yet 
spoken, by majestT of memor)-, and strength of example. 



392 

THE tlIGll SCIIOOL READER. 

And, at last, what has all this " Might" of humanity 
accomplished, in six thousand years of labor and sorrow ? 
\Vhat has it done ? Take the three chief occupations and 
arts of men, one by one, and count their achievements. 
Begin with the first--thelord of them all--agriculture. Six 
thousand years have passed since we were set to till the 
ground, from which we were taken. How much of it is 
tilled? ttow much of that which is, wisely or well? In 
the vcr" centre and chief garden of Europe--where the 
two forms of parent Christianity have had their fortresses 
--where the noble Catholics of the Forest Cantons, and 
the noble Protestants of the Vaudois valleys, have main- 
taincd, for dateless ages, their faiths and liberties--there 
the unchecked Alpine rivers yet run wild in devastation : 
and the marshes, which a few hundred men could redeem 
with a year's labor, still b!at their helpless inhabitants 
into fevered idiotism. That is so, in the centre of Europe ! 
While, on the near coast of Africa, once the Garden of the 
Hesperides, an Arab xvoman, but a few sunsets since, ate 
her child, for famine. And, with all the treasures of the 
East at our feet, we, in our own dominion, could not find 
a few grains of rice, for a people that asked of us no more ; 
but stood by, and saw five hundred thousand of them 
perish of hunger. 
Then, after agriculture, the art of kings, take the next 
head of human arts--weaving; the art of queens, hon- 
ored of all noble Heathen uomcn, in the person of their 
virgin goddess--honored of all Hebrew women, by the 
word of their wisest king--" She layeth her hands to the 
spindle, and her hands hold the distaff; she stretcheth 
out her hand to the poor. She is not afraid of the snow 
for her househc, ld, for all her household are clothed with 
scarlet. She naketh herself covering of tapestry, her 



OF THE AI I"S TER I" OF LIFE. 

395 

at these visions of theirs we have mocked, and hchl 
them for idle and vain, unreal and unaccomplisbable. 
What have we accomplished with our realities ? Is this 
what has come of our worldly wisdom, tried against their 
folly ? this our mightiest possible, against their impotent 
ideal ? or have we only wandered among the spectra of a 
baser felicity, and chased phantoms of the tombs, instead 
of visions of the ,:imighty ; and walked after the imagi- 
nations of our evil hearts, instead of after the counsels 
of Eternity, until our lives--not in the likeness of the 
cloud of heaven, but of the smoke of hell--have become 
" as a vapor, that appeareth for a little time, and then 
vanNheth avay"  
Does it vanish then ? .4re you sure of that ?--sure, 
that the nothingness of the grave will be a rest from this 
troubled nothingness; and that the coiling shadow, 
which disquiets itself in vain, cannot change into the 
smoke of the torment that ascends forever ? Will auy 
answer that they are sure of it, anal that there is no fear, 
nor hope, nor desire, nor labor, whither they go ? Be it 
so ; will you not, then, make as sure of the I.ife, that nov 
is, as you are of the Death that is to come ? Vour hearts 
are wholly in this world--will you not give them to it 
wisely, as well as perfectly ? And see, first of all, that you 
hai,e hearts, and sound hearts, too, to give. Because you 
have no heaven to look for, is that an), reason that you 
should remain ignorant of this wonderful and infinite earth, 
which is firmly and instantly given you in possession ? 
Although )'our days are numbered, and the following 
darkness sure, is it ,ecessary that you should share the 
degradation of the brute, because you are condemned to 
its mortality; or live the life of the moth, and of the 
svorm, because you are to companion them in the dust ? 



THE ROB/A: 397 

LXXXVIII. THE ROBIN. 

J x..Mls RUSSELL Lo ELL.--1819- 
Fro::t .M GARDEN ACQUAINTANCE. 
THE rcturn of the robin is commonly announced by 
thc ncwspapcrs, like that of eminent or notorious pcoplc 
to a watcring-placc, as the first authentic notification of 
spring. .And such his appearance in the orchard and 
garden undoubtedly is. But, in spite of his name of 
migratcary thrush, he stays with us all winter, and I have 
seen him when the thermometer marked I5 degrees 
below zero of Fahrenheit, armed impregnably within, 
like Emerson's Titmouse, and as cheerful as he. The 
robin has a bad reputation among people xho do not 
value themselves less for being fond of cherries. There 
is, I admit, a spice of vulgarity in him, and his song is 
rather of the Bloomfield sort, too largely ballasted with 
prose. His ethics are of the Poor Richard school, and 
the main chance which calls forth all his energy is alto- 
gether of the belly. He never has those fine intervals of 
lunacy into which his cousins, the catbird and the mavis, 
are apt to fall. But for a' that aml twice as muckle's a' 
that, I would not exchange him for all the cherries that 
ever came out of Asia Minor. With whatever faults, he 
has not wholly forfeited that superiority hich belongs 
to the children of nature. He has a finer taste in fruit 
thah could be distilled from many successive committees 
of the Horticultural Society, and he eats with a relishing 
gulp not inferior to Dr. Johnson's. He feels and freely 
exercises his right of eminent domain, ttis is the earliest 
mess of green peas ; his all the mulberries I had fancied 
mine. But if he get also the lion's share of the rasp- 



THE ROBL: 399 
abundance, but my cunning thieves preferred the foreign 
flavor. Could I tax them vith want of taste ? 
The robins are not good solo singers, but their chorus, 
as, like primitive fire-worshippers, they hail the return of 
light and warmth to the world, is unrivalled. There are 
a hundred singing like one. They are noisy enough 
then, and sing, as poets should, with no afterthought. 
But when they come after cherries to the tree near my 
window, they muffle their voices, and their faint/,i/,, 
/, ! sounds far away at the bottom of the garden, where 
they knoxv I shall not suspect them of robbing the great 
black-walnut of its bittcr-rinded store.* They arc 
feathered Pecksniffs, to be sure, but then how brightly 
their breasts, that look rather shabby in the sunlight, 
shine in a rainy day against the dark green of the fringe- 
tree! After they have pinched and shaken all the life 
out of an earthworm, as Italian cooks pound all the- 
spirit out of a steak, and then gulped him, they stand up 
in honest self-confidence, expand their red waistcoats 
with the virtuous air of a lobby member, and outface 
you with an eye that calmly challenges inquiry. '" Do 1 
look like a bird that knows the flavor of raw vermin ? 1 
throw myself upon a jury of my peers. Ask any robin 
if he ever ate anything less ascetic than the frugal berry 
of the juniper, and he will answer that his vov forbids 
him." Can such an opeu bosom cover such depravity ? 
Alas, yes! I have no doubt his breast was redder at 
that very moment with the blood of my raspberries. On 
the whole, he is a doubtful friend in the garden. He 
makes his clcsscrt of all kinds of berries, and is not averse 

* l'he screech-owl, whose cry, despite his ill name, is one of the sweetest 
._.ounds in nature, softens his voice in the same ay ith tht- mosl beguiling 
m,ckery of distance..--AUTHOR'S NOTE. 



4o2 

THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 
Solemn, unlighted, austere, 
Through the gathering darkness, arise 
The chapel-walls, in whose bound 
Thou, my father ! art laid. 
There thou dost lie, in the gloom 
Of the autumn evening. But ah ! 
That word, gloom, to nay mind 
Brings thee back in the light 
Of thy radiant vigor again : 
In the gloom of November we pass'd 
1 ays not dark at thy side ; 
Seasons impair'd not the ray 
Of thy buoyant cheerfulness clear. 
Such thou wast! and I stand 
In the autumn evening, and think 
(If bygone autumns with thee. 
l"ifteen years have gone round 
Since thou arosest to tread, 
In the summer-morning, the road 
(If death, at a call unforeseen, 
Sudden. For fifteen years, 
We who till then in thy shade 
Rested as under the boughs 
Of a mighty oak, have endured 
Sunshine and rain as we might, 
Bare, unshaded, alone, 
Lacking the shelter of thee. 
0 strong soul, by what shore 
Tarriest thou now ? For that force, 
Surely, has not been left vain ! 
Somewhere, surely, afar, 
In the sounding labor-house vast 
Of being, is practis'd that strength, 
Zealous, beneficent, firm! 



RUGBY CHAPEL. 

Ves, in some far-shining sphere, 
Conscious or not of the past, 
Still thou performest the word 
Of the Spirit in whom thou dost live- 
l'rompt, unwearied, as here ! 
Still thou upraisest with zeal 
The humble good from the ground, 
Sternly repressest the bad ! 
Still, like a trumpet, dost rouse 
Those who with half-open eyes 
Tread the border-land dim 
"Twixt vice and virtue ; reviv'st, 
Succorest !--this was thy work, 
This was thy life upon earth. 

4o3 

What is the course of the life 
Of mortal men on the earth ?- 
Most men eddy about 
Here and there--eat and drink, 
Chatter and love and hate, 
Gather and squander, are rais'd 
Aloft, are hurl'd in the dust, 
Striving blindly, achieving 
Nothing ; and then they die- 
Perish--and no one asks 
Who or what they have been, 
More than he asks what waves, 
In the moonlit solitudes mild 
Of the midmost Ocean, have swell'd, 
Foam'd for a moment, and gone. 

And there are some, whom a thirst 
Ardent, unquenchable, fires, 
Not with the crowd to be spent, 
Not without aim to go round 



RUGB Y CHAPEL. 

Shaking his thin white hairs--- 
Holds his lantern to scan 
Our storm-beat figures, and ,asks : 
Whom in our party we bring ? 
Whom we have left in the snow ? 

Sadly we answer : We bring 
Only ourselves ! we lost 
Sight of the rest in the storm. 
Hardly ourselves we fought through, 
Stripp'd, without friends, as we are. 
Friends, companions, and train, 
The avalanche swept from our side. 

But thou xxould'st not alone 
Be saved, ny father  alone 
Conquer and come to thy goal, 
Leaving the rest in the wild. 
We were wear)', and we 
Fearful, and we in our march 
Fain to drop down and to die. 
Still thou turnedst, and still 
Beckonedst the trembler, and still 
Gavest the xeary thy hand. 
If, in the paths of the world, 
Stones nfight have wounded thy feet, 
Toil or dejection have tried 
Thy spirit, of that we saw 
Nothing--to us thou wast still 
Cheerful, and helpful, and firm 
Therefore to thee it was given 
Many to save with thyself; 
And, at the end of thy day, 
O faithful shepherd ! to come, 
Bringing thy sheep in thy hand, 

405 



17  ,B I" CHAPEL. 

Rising all round, overawe ; 
Factions divide them, their host 
Threatens to break, to dissolve.-- 
Ah, keep, keep them combined ! 
Else, of the myriads who fill 
That army, not one shall arrive ; 
Sole they shall stray ; on the rocks 
Batter forever in vain, 
Die one by one in the waste. 

Then, in such hour of need 
Of your fainting, dispirited race, 
Ye, like angels, appear, 
Radiant with ardor divine. 
Beacons of hope, ye appear ! 
Languor is not in )'our heart, 
Weakness is not in your word, 
Weariness not on your brow. 
,'e alight in our van ! at your voice, 
Panic, despair, flee away. 
'e move through the ranks, recall 
The stragglers, refresh the outworn, 
Praise, re-inspire the brave. 
Order, courage, return; 
Eyes rekindling, and prayers, 
Follow your steps as ye go. 
'e fill up the gaps in our files, 
Strengthen the wavering line, 
Stablish, continue our march, 
On, to the bound of the waste, 
On, to the City of God. 

407 

If'hat knca, oe greater titan the soul? 
On God and Godlike men we build our trust. 
TENNYSOn. 



I V THE )EIGHTE)ENTH CEYTUR Y. 409 

KCII. MORALS AND CHARACTER IN THE EIGHTEENTH 
CENTURY. 

(iOLD, IN SMITH.I823 
From COWPER. 
THE world into which Cowper came was one very ad- 
verse to him, and at the same time very much in need of 
him. It was a world from which the spirit of poetry 
seemed to have fled. There could be no stronger proof 
of this than the occupation of the throne of Spenser, 
Shakespeare, and Milton, by the arch-versifier Pope. The 
Revolution of 1688 vas glorious, but unlike the Puritan 
Rvolution which it followed, and in the political sphere 
partly ratified, it was profoundly prosaic. Spiritual re- 
ligion, the source of Puritan grandeur and of the poetry 
of Milton, was almost extinct; there was not much more 
of it among the Nonconformists, who had now become to 
a great extent mere Whigs, with a decided Unitarian 
tendency. The Church was little better than a political 
force cultivated and manipulated by political leaders for 
their ovn purposes. The Bishops were either politicians, 
or theological polemics collecting trophies of victor3, over 
free-thinkers as titles to higher preferment. The inferior 
clergy as a body were far nearer in character to Trulliber 
than to Dr. Primrose ; coarse, sordid, neglectful of their 
duties, shamelessly addicted to sinccurism and plmalities, 
fanatics in their Toryism and in attachment to their cor- 
porate privileges, cold, rationalistic, and almost heathen 
m their preachings, if the), preached at all. The society 
of the day is mirrored in the pictures of Hogarth in the 
works of Fielding and Smollett; hard and heartless 
polish was the best of it; and not a little of it waz 



,4 LIBER.4 L ED UC.4 TION. 4  3 
My metaphor will remind some of you of the famous 
picture in which Retzsch has depicted Satan playing at 
chess with man for his soul. Substitute for the mocking 
fiend in that picture, a calm, stron ngei, who is playing 
for love, as we say, and would rather lose than win--and 
I should accept it as an image of human life. 
Well, what I mean b3" Education, is learning the rules 
of this mighty game. In other words, education is the 
instruction of the intellect in the lairs of Nature, under 
which name I include not merely things and their forces, 
but men and their ways; and the fashioning of the affec- 
tions and of the will into an earnest and loving desire to 
move in harmony with those laws. For me, education 
means neither more nor less than this. Anything which 
professes to call itself education must be tried b)" this 
standard, and if it fails to stand the test, I will not call it 
education, whatever may be the force of authority, or of 
numbers, upon the other side. 
It is importa, nt to remember that, in strictness, there 
is no such thing as an uneducated man. Take an ex- 
treme case. Suppose that an adult man, in the full 
vigor of his faculties, could be suddenly- placed in the 
world, as Adam is said to have been, and then left to do 
as he best might. How long would he be left unedu- 
cated? Not five minutes. Nature would begin to 
teach him, through the eye, the ear, the touch, the pro- 
perties of objects. Pain and pleasure would be at his 
elbow telling him to do this and avoid that ; and by sloxv 
degrees the man would receive an education, which, if 
narrov, would be thorough, real, and adequate to his 
circumstances, though there would be no extras and very 
few accomplishments. 
,nd if to this solitary man entered a second Adam, 



A LIBERAL EDg_tCA TIO,': 4 
was franed and passed long ago. But, like all com- 
pulsory legislation, that of Nature is harsh and wasteful 
in its operation. Ignorance is visited as sharply as wilful 
disobedience--incapacity meets wi the same punish- 
rnent as crime. Nature's discipline is not even a word 
and a blow, and the blow first; but the blow without 
the word. It is left to you to find out why your ears are 
boxed. 
The object of what we commonly" call education--that 
education in which man intervenes and which I shall 
distinguish as artificial education--s to make goocl these 
defects in Nature's methods; to prepare the child to re- 
ceive Nature's education, neither incapably nor igno- 
rantl)-, nor with wilful disobedience ; anal to understand 
the preliminary symptoms of her displeasure, without 
waiting for the box on the ear. In short, all artificial 
education ought to be an anticipation of natural eluca- 
tion. And a liberal education is an artificial education, 
which has not onl), prepared a man to escape the great 
evils of disobedience to natural laws, but has trained him 
to appreciate and to seize upon the rewards which Nature 
scatters with as free a hand as her penalties. 
That man, I think, has had a liberal education, who 
has been so trained in youth that his body is the ready 
servant of his will, and does with ease anal pleasure all 
the work that, as a rnechanisrn, it is capable of; whose 
intellect is a clear, cold, logic engine, with all its parts 
of equal strength, and in sooth working order ; ready, 
like a steam engine, to be turned to any kind of wor-, 
and spin the gossamers as well as forge the anchors of 
the mind ; whose mind is stored with a knowledge of the 
great and fundamental truths of Nature and of the laws 
of her operations ; one, who, no stunted ascetic, is full of 



416 7"H HIGI# r SCHOOL 
lifc and firc, but whose passions arc traincd to come to 
hccl by a vigorous will, the scrvant of a tcndcr con- 
scicncc ; who has Icarncd to love all bcauty, whcthcr of 
Naturc or of art, to, atc all vilcncss, and to rcspcct othcrs 
as himself. 
Such an one and no other, I conceive, has had a liberal 
education ; for he is, as completely as a man can be, in 
harmony with Nature. He will make the best of her, and 
she of him. The)" will get on together rarely; she as 
his ever beneficent mother; he as her mouth-piece, her 
conscious self, her minister and interpreter. 

XCIV. TOO LATE. 
DINAI! -,[..RIA .'k[ULOCK (..'RAIK.--I826- 
COULD ye come back to me, I)ouglas, I )ouglas, 
In the old likeness that I knew, 
I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 
Never a scornful word should grieve ye, 
I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do,- 
Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 
O to call back the days that are not ! 
My eyes were blinded, your words were few 
I)o you know the truth now up in heaven, 
] )ouglas, Douglas, tender and true ? 
I never was worthy of you, Douglas, 
Not half worthy the like of you ; 



A.IIOR AIUNDI 

Now all men beside seem to me like shadows,-- 
I love you, Douglas, tender and true. 

Stretch out )'our hand to me, Duglas, Douglas, 
I)rop forgiveness from heaven like dew, 
As I lay my heart on your dead bean, Douglas, 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 

417 

XCV. AMOR MUNDI. 

CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI.--I830- 
"O WHERE are you going with your love-locks flowing, 
On the west wind blowing along this valley track ?" 
"The down-hill path is easy, come with me an it please ye, 
We shall escape the up-hill by never turning back." 

So they two went together in glowing August weather, 
The honey-breathing heather lay to theil" left and right ; 
And dear she was to doat on, her swift feet seem'd to float on 
The air like soft twin pigeons too sportive to Might. 

"Oh, what is that in heaven where grey cloud-flakes are seven, 
, here blackest clouds hang riven just at the rainy skirt ?" 
" Oh, that's a meteor sent us, a message dumb, portentous, 
An undecipher'd solemn signal of help or hurt." 

"Oh, what is that glides quickly where veh'et flowers grow 
thickly, 
Their scent comes rich and sickly?" "A scaled and hooded 
wOVmo" 
"Oh, what's that in the hollow, so pale I quake to follow ?" 
"Oh, that's a thin dead body which waits the eternal term." 



48 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 

Turn again, O my sweetest,--turn again, false and fleetest : 
This beaten way thou beatest, I fear is hell's own track." 
Nay, too steep for hill mounting ; nay, too late ior cost count- 
ing : 
This down-hill path is easy, but there's no turning back." 

XCVI. TOUJOURS AMOUR. 

ED,IUND CLARENCE 
PRITHEE tell me, Dimple-Chin, 
At what age does love begin ? 
Your blue eyes have scarcely seen 
Summers three, my fairy queen, 
But a miracle of sweets, 
Soft approaches, sly retreats, 
Show the little archer there, 
Hidden in your pretty hair ; 
XVheff didst learn a heart to win ? 
Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin 
"Oh !" the rosy lips reply, 
" I can't tell you if I try. 
Tis so long I can't remember : 
Ask some younger lass than I." 
Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face, 
Do your heart and head keep pace ? 
When does hoary Love expire, 
When do frosts put out the fire ? 
Can its embers burn below 
All that chill December snow ? 
Care you still soft hands to press, 
Bonny heads to smooth and bless ? 



ENGZ/ND. 

When does Love give up the chase ? 
Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face ! 
"Ah !" the wise old lips reply, 
"Youth may pass and strength may die ; 
But of Love I can't foretoken : 
Ask some older sage than I !" 

XCVII. ENGLAND. 

'HOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.--I836- 
,VHILE men pay reverence to mighty things, 
They must levere thee, thou blue-cinctured isle 
Of England.-not to-day, but this long while 
In the front of nations, Mother of great kings, 
Soldiers, and poets. Round thee the Sea flings 
His steel-bright arm, and shields thee from the guile 
And hurt of France. Secure, with august smile, 
Thou sittest, and the East its tribute brings. 
Some say thy old-time power is on the wane, 
Thy moon of grandeur fill'd, contracts at length-- 
They see it darkening down from less to less. 
Let but a hostile hand make threat again, 
And they shall see thee in thy ancient strength, 
Each iron sinew quivering, lioness ! 

Such kings of s.hreds have woo'd and won her, 
Such crafty knaves her laurel own'd, 
1/has become almost an honor 
2Vot to be crown'd. 
THOMAS BAILE ALDRICH. 
On Popularity. 



THALA TTA .t THALA TTA .' 

":'rue kings are kings for ever, crown'd of God, 
The King of Kings,--we need not fear for them 
Tis only the usurper's diadem 
That shakes at touch of light, revealing fraud. 

C. THALATTA! THALATTA ! 

JOHN READE. 
Ix my ear is the moan of the pines--in my heart s the song 
of the sea, 
.\nd I feel his salt breath on my face as he showers his kisses 
on ITle, 
And I hear the sild scream of the gulls, as they answer the 
call of the tide, 
And I watch the fair saris as they glisten like gems on the breast 
of a bride. 

From the rock where I stand to the sun is a pathway of sap- 
phire and gold, 
Like a waif of those Patmian visions that wrapt the lone seer of 
old, 
And it seems to my soul like an omen that calls me far over 
the sea-- 
But I think of a little white cottage and one that is dearest to 
me. 

Westward ho ! Far away to the East is a cottage that looks to 
the shore,- 
Though each drop in the sea were a tear, as it was, I can see 
it no more ; 
For the heart of its pride with the flowers of_ the " Vale of the 
Shadow" reclines, 
\nd--hush'd is the song of the sea and hoarse is the moan ot 
the pines. 



THE FORSAKEN GARDEN. 

Over the meadows that blossom and wither 
Rings but the note of sea-brd's song ; 
Only the sun and the rain come hither 
All year long. 

The sun burns sere and the rain dishevels 
One gaunt bleak blossom of scentless breath._ 
Only the wind here hovers and revels 
In a round where life seems barren as death. 
Here there was laughing of old, there was weeping, 
Haply, of lovers none ever will know, 
Whose eyes went seaward a hundred sleeping 
Years ago. 

423 

Heart handfast in heart as they stood, "Loo,k thither," 
Did he whisper? "Look forth from the flowers to the sea; 
For the foam-flowers endure when the rose-blossoms wither, 
And men that love lightly may die--but we ?" 
And the same wind sang and the same waves whiten'd, 
And or ever the garden's last petals were shed, 
In the lips that had whisper'd, the eyes that had lighten'd, 
Love was dead. 

Or they lov'd their life through, and then went whither ? 
And were one to the end--but what end who knows ? 
Love deep as the sea as a rose must wither, 
As the rose-red seaweed that mocks the rose. 
Shall the dead take thought for the dead to love them ? 
What love was ever as deep as a grave ? 
They are loveless now as the grass above them 
Or the wave. 

All are at one now, roses and lovers, 
Not known of the cliffs and the fields and the sea. 
Not a breath of the time that has been hovers 
In the air now soft with a summer to be. 



426 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 

CIII. CIRCE. 
(TRtoLE'.) 

AUSTIN DOBSON. 
l. the School of Coquettes 
Madame Rose is a scholar 
O, they fish with all nets 
In the School of Coquettes ! 
When her brooch she forgets 
"Tis to show her new collar 
In the School of Coquettes 
Madame Rose is a scholar 

CIV. SCENES FROM "TECUMSEH."* 

CHARLES 
5CENE.--TEcUMSEH'S Cabin. 
Enter IEXA. 
Iena. 'Tis night, and Mamatee is absent still 
Why should this sorrow weigh upon my heart, 
Arid other lonely things on earth have rest ? 
Oh, could I be with them ! The lily shone 

* These scenes are enacted at the " Prophet's Town." an Indiau village, situ- 
ated at the junction of the Tippecanoe river with the ,'abash, the latter a 
tributary of the Ohio. Tecumseh is gone on a mission to the Southern In- 
dians to induce them to unite in a confederation of all the Indian tribes, leav- 
ing his brother, the Prophet. in charge of thd tribes already assembled, having 
strictly enjoined upon him not to quarrel with the Americans, or Long-Knives, 
as the Indians called them. during his absence. General Harrison. Governor 
of Indiana. and commander of the American forces, having learned of 



SCENES FIgO.M " TECU.MSEH: 

4-'9 

lena. It shall not ! Let us go to him at once ! 
llamatee. And risk your life ? 
Iena. Risk hovers everywhere 
When night and man combine for darksome deeds. 
I'll go to him, and argue on nay knees-- 
Vca, yield my hand--would I could give my heart ' 
To stay his purpose and this act of ruin. 
.l[amatee. He is not in the mood for argument. 
Rash girl ! they die who would oppose him now. 
lena. Such death were sweet as life--I go ! But, first-- 
Great Spirit ! I commit nay soul to Thee. [A'neels. 

SCENE.--An open space in the forest near tile trophel's 
fire of billets burnin . ll'ar-o'ies are heard from tile tazc,n. 

PROPHET. 

t"rophet. My spells do work apace ! Shout yourselves hoarse, 
Ve howling ministers by whom I climb ! 
For this I've wrought until my weary tongue, 
Blister'd with incantation, flags in speech, 
And half declines its oflSce. Every brave 
Inflamed by charms and oracles, is now 
A vengeful serpent, who will glide ere morn 
To sting the Long-Knife's sleeping camp to death. 

ners, finding its way even to the Red River of the North. These. coupled itla 
his orato .ry and mummeries, greatly enhanced an influence hich was possibly 
added to by a gloomy and saturnine countenance, made more forbidding still 
by the loss of an eye. Unfortunately for Tecumseh's enterprise, the Prophet 
was more bent upon personal notoriety than upon the welfare of his igeople ; 
and, whilst professing the latter, indulged his ambition, in Tecumseh's absence, 
by a precipitate attack upon Harrison's force on the Tippecanoe. His defeat 
discredited his assumption of supernatural powers, led to distrust and defec- 
tion. and wrecked Tecumseh's plan of independent action. But the protection 
of his people was Tecumseh's sole ambition ; and, true statesman that he was, 
he joined the British at Amhersthurg {Fort Malden), in Upper Canada, with a 
large force, and in the summer of xSxz began that series of services to the British 
interest which has made his name a household word in Canada. and endeared 
him to the Canadian hearLErora AUTHOR'S NOTE. 



SCENES FRO.1I " TECU.IISEII." 

43 

PropAeL She shall be yours ! 
[To tAe braves.] Go bring her here at once-- 
But, look! Fulfilment of my promise comes 
In her own person. 

Enter lENA and MAMATEE. 

Welcome, nay sweet niece ! 
You have forstall'd my message by these braves, 
And come unbidden to your wedding-place. 
lena. Uncle ! you know nay heart is far away-- 
Prophet. But still your hand is here ! this little hand ! 
[Pulling ]mr forvz,ard. 
Iena. Dare you enforce a weak and helpless girl, 
Who thought to move you by her misery ? 
Stand back ! I have a message for you too. 
What means the war-like song, the dance oi braves, 
And bustle in our town ? 
Prophet. It means that we 
Attack the foe to-night. 
Iena. And risk our all ? 
O that Tecumseh knew ! his soul would rush 
In arms to interGept you. What ! break faith, 
And on the hazard of a doubtful strife, 
Stake his great enterprise and all our lives ! 
The dying curses of a ruin'd race 
Will wither up your wicked heart for this ! 
Prophet. False girl ! )'our heart is with our foes ; 
Your hand I mean to turn to better use. 
Iena. Oh, could it turn you from your mad intent 
How freely would I give it ! Drop this scheme, 
Dismiss your frenzied warriors to their beds ; 
And, if contented with my hand, Tarhay 
Can have it here. 
Tarhay. I love you, lena! 
rena. Then must you love what I do ! Love our race 



432 

THE HIGI-I SCHOOL READILR. 

'Tis this love nerves Tecumseh to unite 
Its scatter'd tribes--his fruit of noble toil, 
Which you would snatch unripen'd from his hand, 
And feed to sour ambition. Touch it not-- 
Oh, touch t not, Tarhay ! and though nay heart 
Breaks for it, I am yours. 
ProheL His anyway, 
Or I am not the Prophet ! 
Tarhay. For my part 
I have no leaning to this rash attempt, 
Since ]cna consents to be my xife. 
Irol, het. Shall I be thwarted by a yearning fool! 
This soft, sleek girl, to outward seeming good, 
I know to be a very fiend beneath-- 
Whose sly affections centre on herself, 
And feed the gliding snake within her heart. 
Tarhay. I cannot think her so-- 
.l[ama/ee. She is not so ! 
There is the snake that creeps among our race ; 
Whose senom'd fangs would bite into our lixes, 
And poison all our hopes. 
Prophet. She is the head-- 
The very neck of danger to me here, 
Which I must break at once ! [Mside.] Tarhay--attend ! 
I can see dreadful visions in the air ; 
I can dream awfifl dreams of life and fate ; 
I can bring darkness on the heavy earth ; 
I can fetch shadows from our fathers' graves, 
And spectres from the sepulchres of hell. 
Who dares dispute witE me, disputes with death l 
Dost hear, Tarhay ? 
[T.RH.V and braz, es cozeter before/he PROPHET. 
,rha_v. I hear, and will obey. 
Spare me ! Spare me ! 
.Pro,hel. As for this foolish girl, 



SCENES FRO,If " TECU.IISEH." 

435 

My cunning 'gainst your wisdom, and have dragg d 
Myself and all into a sea of ruin. 

2?nter TECUMSEH. 

2"ecumseh. [)evil ! I have discover'd you at last ! 
You sum of treacheries, whose wolfish fangs 
Have torn our people's flesh--you shall not live ! 
[ The PROPHET retreats facing and followed by TECUMSEH. 
lrophet. Nay--strike me not ! I can explain it all ! 
It was a woman touch'd the Magic Bowl, 
And broke the brooding spell. 
2"ecumseh. Impostor ! Slave ! 
Why should I spare you ? [Zffts hts hand as if to strike. 
Prothet. Stay, stay, touch me not ! 
One mother bore us in the self-same hour. 
Tecumseh. Then good and evil came to light together. 
Go to the corn-dance, change your name to villain ! 
Away ! Your presence tempts my soul to mischief. 
[.Ext'/' thg PROPHET hastily. 
Would that I were a woman, and could weep, 
And slake hot rage with tears ! O spiteful fortune, 
To lure me to the limit of my dreams, 
Then turn and crowd the ruin of my toil 
Into the narrow compass of a night ! 
My brother's deep disgrace--myself the scorn 
Of envious harriers and thieves of fame, 
Who fain would rob me of the lawful meed 
Of faithful services and duties done-- 
Oh, I could bear it all ! But to behold 
Our ruin'd people hunted to their graves-- 
To see the Long-Knife triumph in their shame-- 
This is the burning shaft, the poiso,n'd wound 
That rankles in my soul ! But, why despair ? 
All is not lost--the English arc our friend". 
My spirit rises--manhood bear me up ! 



THE VETUVV OF THA" S IVAZZOIVS. 437 

CV. THE RETURN OF THE SWALLOWS. 

EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE.--t849- 
" OUT in the meadows the young grass springs, 
Shivering with sap," said the ]arks, "and wc 
Shoot into air with our strong young wings 
Spirally up over level and lea ; 
Come, O Swallows, and fly with us 
Now that horizons are luminous ! 
Evening and morning the world of light, 
Spreading and kindling, is infinite !" 

Far aay, by the sea in the south, 
The hills of olive and slopes of fern 
Whiten and glow in the sun's long drouth, 
Under the heavens that beam and burn : 
And all the swallows were gather'd there 
Flitting about in the fragrant air, 
And heard no sound from the larks, but flew 
Flashing under the blinding blue. 

Out of the depths of their soft rich throats 
Languidly fluted the thrushes, and said : 
" Musical thought in the mild air floats, 
Spring is coming and winter is dead ! 
Come, 0 Swallows, and stir the air, 
For the buds are all bursting unaware, 
And the drooping eaves and the elm-trees long 
To hear the sound of)our low sweet song." 

Over the roofs of the white Algiers, 
Flashingly shadowing the bright bazaar, 
Flitted the swallows, and not one hears 
The call of the thrushes from far, from far ; 
Sigh'd the thrushes ; then, all at once, 
Broke out singing the old sweet tones, 



438 TtZE t1IGt1 SCI-IOOL RE.,4DER. 

Singing the bridal of sap and shoot, 
The tree's slow life between root and fruit. 

But just when the dingles of April flowers 
Shine with the earliest daffodils, 
When, before sunrise, the cold clear hours 
Gleam with a promise that noon fulfils,- 
Deep in the leafage the cuckoo cried, 
Perch'd on a spray by a rivulet-side, 
" Swallows, O Swallows, COlne back again 
To swoop and herald the April rain." 

And SOlnething awoke in the slumbering heart 
Of the alien birds in their African air, 
And they paused, and alighted, and twitter'd apart, 
And met in the broad white dreamy square ; 
And the sad slave woman, who lifted up 
From the fountain her broad-lipp'd earthen cup, 
Said to herself, with a weary sigh, 
" To-morrow the swallows will northward fly':" 

CVI. DAWN ANGELS. 

A. MARl" F. ROBINSON.--I856- 
ALL night I watch'd, awake, for morning : 
At last the East grew all aflame, 
The birds for welcome sang, or warning, 
And with their singing morning came. 

Along the gold-green heavens drifted 
Pale wandering souls that shun the light, 
Whose cloudy pinions, torn and rifted, 
Had beat the bars of Heaven all night. 



ZE ROI ES T .IIOR T. 

These cluter'd round the Moon ; but higher 
A troop of shining spirits went, 
Who were not made of wind or fire, 
But some divine dream-element. 

Some held the Light, while those remaining 
Shook out their harvest-coior'd wings, 
A faint unusual music raining 
(Whose sound was Light) on earthly things. 
They sang, and as a mighty river 
Their voices wash'd the night away : 
From East to West ran one white shiver, 
And waxen strong their song was Day. 

CVII. LE ROI EST MORT. 

A. MARY F. ROBINSON. 
AND shall I weep that I.ove's no more, 
And magnify his reign ? 
Sure never mortal man before 
Would have his grief again. 
Farewell the long-continued ache, 
The days a-dream, the nights awake, 
I ill rejoice and merry make, 
And never more complain. 
King Love is dead and gone for aye, 
Who ruled with might and main, 
For with a bitter word one day, 
I found my tyrant slain, 
And he in Heathenesse was bred, 
Nor ever was baptized, 'tis said, 
Nor is of any creed, and dead 
Can never rise again. 

439 



To the Autunm's ripe fulfilling ;-- 
Heaped orchard-baskets spilling 
'Neath the laughter-shaken trees ; 
Fields of buckwheat full of bees, 
Girt with ancient groves of fir 
Shod with berried juniper; 
Beech-nuts mid their russet leaves ; 
Heavy-headed nodding sheaves ; 
Clumps of luscious blackberries ; 
Purple-cluster'd traceries 
Of the cottage climbing-vines ; 
Scarlet-fruited eglantines ; 
Maple forests all aflame 
When thy sharp-tongued legates came. 

Ruler with an iron hand 
O'er an intermediate land ! 
Glad am I thy reahn is border'd 
By the plains more richly order'd,-- 
Stock'd vith sweeter-glowing forms,- 
Where the prison'd brightness warms 
In lush crimsons through the leaves, 
And a gorgeous legend weaves. 

CIX. ABIGAIL BECKER. 

/'Off Lonff Point Island. Lake Erie, November a4lh, 1oe54.) 
AStANDA T. JONES. 
THE wind, the wind where Erie plunged, 
Blew, blew nor'-east from land to land ; 
The wandering schooner dipp'd and lunged,-- 
Long Point was close at hand. 



Long Point--a swampy island-slant, 
Where, busy in their grassy homes, 
Woodcock and snipe the hollows haunt, 
And musk-rats build their domes ; 

413 

Where gulls and eagles rest at need, 
Where either side, by lake or sound, 
Kingfishers, cranes, and divers feed, 
And mallard ducks abound. 

The lowering night shut out the sight : 
Careen'd the vessel, pitch'd and veer'd,-- 
Raved, raved the wind with main and might ; 
The sunken reef she near'd. 

She pounded over, lurch'd, and sank ; 
Between two sand-bars settling fast, 
Her leaky hull the waters drank, 
And she had sail'd her last. 

Into the rigging, quick as thought, 
Captain and mate and sailors sprung, 
Clamber'd for life, some vantage caught, 
And there all night they swung. 

And it was cold--oh, it was cold ! 
The pinching cold was like a vise : 
Spoondriff flew freezing,--fold on fold 
It coated them with ice. 

Now when the dawn began to break, 
Light up the sand-path drench'd and brown, 
To fill her bucket from the lake, 
Came Mother Becker down. 

From where her cabin crown'd the bank 
Came Abigail P, ecker tall and strong ; 



446 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER. 

And well for him her grasping hand 
And grappling arm were strong ! 

And well for him that wind and sun, 
And daily toil for scanty gains, 
Had made such daring blood to run 
Within such generous veins I 

For what to do but plunge and swim ? 
Out on the sinking billow cast, 
She toil'd, she dived, she groped for him, 
She found and clutch'd him fast. 

She climb'd the reef, she brought him up, 
She laid him gasping on the sands ; 
Built high the fire and fill'd the cup,-- 
Stood up and waved her hands ! 

Oh, life is dear ! The mate leap'd in. 
"I know," the captain said, "right well, 
Not twice can any woman win 
A soul from yonder hell. 

" I'll start and meet him in the wave." 
" Keep back !" she bade: "what strength have you ? 
And I shall have you both to save,-- 
Must work to pull you through ! " 

But out he went. Up shallow sweeps 
Raced the long white-caps, comb on comb : 
The wind, the wind that lash'd the deeps, 
Far, far it blew the foam. 

The frozen foam went scudding by,- 
Before the wind, a seething throng, 
The waves, the waves came towering high, 
They flung the mate along. 



ABIGAIL BECKER. 447 

The waves came towering high and white, 
They burst in clouds of flying spray : 
There mate and captain sank from sight, 
And, clinching, roll'd away. 

Oh, Mother Becket, seas are dread, 
Their treacherous paths are deep and blind ! 
But widows twain shall mourn their dead 
If thou art slow to find. 

She sought them near, she sought them far, 
Three fathoms down she gripp'd them tight ; 
With both together up the bar 
She stagger'd into sight. 
Beside the fire her burdens fell : 
She paus'd the cheering draught to pour, 
Then waved her hands : "All's well! all's well! 
Come on ! swim ! swim ashore !" 

Sure, life is deal and men are brave : 
They came,--they dropp'd from mast and spar ; 
And who but she could breast the wave, 
And dive beyond the bar ? 
Dark grew the sky from east to west, 
And darker, darker grew the world : 
Each man from off the breaker's crest 
To gloomier deeps was hurl'd. 
And still the gale went shrieking on, 
And still the wrecking fur), grew ; 
And still the woman, worn and wan, 
Those gates of Death went through,- 
As Christ were walking on the waves, 
And heavenly radiance shone about,-- 



448 THE HIGH SCHOOL READER 

.All fearless trod that gulf of graves 
And bore the sailors out. 

Down came the night, but far and bright, 
Despite the wind and flying foam, 
The bonfire flamed to give them light 
To trapper Becker's home. 

Oh, safety after wreck is sweet ! 
And sweet is rest in hut .or hall : 
One story Life and Death repeat,-- 
God's mercy over all. 

Next day men heard, put out ,from shore, 
Cross'd channel-ice, burst in to find 
Seven gallant fellows sick and sore, 
A tender nurse and kind ; 

Shook hands, wept, laugh'd, were crazy-glad ; 
Cried : "Never yet, on land or sea, 
Poor dying, dro ning sailors had 
A better friend than she. 

"Billows may tumble, winds may roar, 
Strong hands the wreck'd from Death may snatch : 
But never, never, nevermore 
This deed shall mortal match !" 

Dear Mother Becker dropp'd her tiead, 
She blushd as girls when lovers woo : 
"' I have not done a thing," she said, 
"More than I ought to do." 

THI FND.