The Wind and the Beam loved the Rose,And the Rose loved one;For who seeks the Wind where it blows?Or loves not the Sun?
The Wind and the Beam loved the Rose,And the Rose loved one;For who seeks the Wind where it blows?Or loves not the Sun?
The Wind and the Beam loved the Rose,
And the Rose loved one;
For who seeks the Wind where it blows?
Or loves not the Sun?
None knew where the humble Wind stole,Poor sport of the skies—None dreamt that the Wind had a soul,In its mournful sighs!
None knew where the humble Wind stole,Poor sport of the skies—None dreamt that the Wind had a soul,In its mournful sighs!
None knew where the humble Wind stole,
Poor sport of the skies—
None dreamt that the Wind had a soul,
In its mournful sighs!
Oh, happy Beam! how canst thou proveThat bright love of thine?In thy light is the proof of thy love,Thou hast but—to shine!
Oh, happy Beam! how canst thou proveThat bright love of thine?In thy light is the proof of thy love,Thou hast but—to shine!
Oh, happy Beam! how canst thou prove
That bright love of thine?
In thy light is the proof of thy love,
Thou hast but—to shine!
How can the Wind its love reveal?Unwelcome its sigh;Mute—mute to its Rose be it still—Its proof is—to die!
How can the Wind its love reveal?Unwelcome its sigh;Mute—mute to its Rose be it still—Its proof is—to die!
How can the Wind its love reveal?
Unwelcome its sigh;
Mute—mute to its Rose be it still—
Its proof is—to die!
Alike in their mornings at the house of Ione, and in their evening excursions, Nydia was usually their constant, and often their sole companion. They did not guess the secret fires which consumed her; the flames of which were ever fanned by the unconscious breath of the two lovers. Yet her fidelity arose above her pitiful pangs of jealousy and in the hour of need she was the tried and trusted.
The scene changes; where only the brightness of uninterrupted love had hitherto fallen, now creep the black shadows of tragic sorrow.
Ione falls into the clutches of Arbaces, a subtle, crafty Egyptian, who attempted by the magic of his dark sorcery, to win her away from Glaucus. In pursuit of his base designs, Arbaces murders Apæcides, the brother of Ione, imprisons the priest Calenus, the only witness of the deed, and with great cunning weaves a convicting web of circumstantial evidence around Glaucus, his hated rival. Glaucus is tried, convicted, and doomed to be thrown to the lion. Ione and Nydia are also prisoners in the house of Arbaces. Glaucus has been placed in that gloomy and narrow cell in which the criminals of the arena awaited their last and fearful struggle.
Alas! how faithless are the friendships made around an epicurean board! Where were the gay loiterers who once lingered at the feasts and drank the rich wines of the house of Glaucus? Only Sallust shed a tear, but he was powerless against Arbaces who was backed by the corrupt priesthood of Isis.
What ministering angel should now come forth as a light out of darkness bearing, even in her blindness, the conditions of deliverance, but Nydia. From the slaves of Arbaces she learned the approaching fate of Glaucus. Working upon the superstition of her special guard Sosia, she manages to escape his vigilance for a time, and creeping along a dark passage she overhears the cries of the priest Calenus lately incarcerated inan adjoining dungeon cell. From him she learns the circumstances of the crime of Arbaces for which the innocent Glaucus was doomed to die. A few hours later she was captured by Sosia and replaced in her cell.
Yet knowing that the sole chance for the life of Glaucus rested on her, this young girl, frail, passionate, and acutely susceptible as she was—resolved not to give way to despair. Glaucus was in deadly peril, but she should save him! Sosia was her only hope, the only instrument with which she could tamper.
As if afraid he would be again outwitted, Sosia refrained from visiting her until a late hour of the following day.
"Kind Sosia, chide me not," said Nydia, "I cannot endure to be so long alone, the solitude appalls me. Sit with me, I pray, a little while. Nay, fear not that I should attempt to escape; place thy seat before the door. Sosia, how much dost thou require to make up thy freedom?"
"How much?" said he, "why, about 2000 sesterces."
"The Gods be praised! not more? Seest thou these bracelets and this chain? they are worth double that sum. I will give them thee if thou wilt let me out, only for one little hour! let me out at midnight—I will return ere to-morrow's dawn; nay, thou canst go with me."
"No," said Sosia, sturdily, "a slave once disobeying Arbaces is never heard of more."
"Well, then, thou wilt not, at least, refuse to take a letter for me; thy master cannot kill thee for that."
"To whom?"
"To Sallust, the gay Sallust. Glaucus was my master, he purchased me from a cruel lord. He alone has been kind to me. He is to die to-morrow. I shall never live happily if I cannot, in this hour of trial and doom, let him know that one heart is grateful to him. Sallust is his friend; he will convey my message."
"Well, give me the trinkets, and I will take the letter."
Nydia carefully prepared the epistle, but ere she placed it in the hands of Sosia she thus addressed him:
"Sosia, I am blind and in prison. Thou mayst think to deceive me—thou mayst pretend only to take the letter to Sallust—thou mayst not fulfill thy charge; but here I solemnly dedicate thy head to vengeance, thy soul to the infernal powers, if thou wrongest thy trust; and I call upon thee to place thy right hand of faith in mine, and repeat after me these words;—'By the ground on which we stand—by the elements which contain life and which can curse life—by Orcus, the all-avenging—by the Olympian Jupiter, the all-seeing—I swear that I will honestly discharge my trust, and faithfully deliver this letter into the hands of Sallust.' Enough! I trust thee—take thy reward. It is already dark—depart at once."
Sosia was true to his trust—Sallust read the letter, she wrote,—"I am a prisoner in the house of Arbaces. Hasten to the Prætor! procure my release, and we yet shall save Glaucus from the lion. There is another prisoner within these walls, whose witness can exonerate the Athenian from the charge against him;—one who saw the crime—who can prove the criminal to be a villain hitherto unsuspected. Fly! hasten! quick! quick! Bring with you armed men, lest resistance be made,—and a cunning and dexterous smith; for the dungeon of my fellow-prisoner is thick and strong. Oh! by thy right hand, and thy father's ashes, lose not a moment!"
The day for the sports in the amphitheater had come and all the seats were filled with eager and expectant people. The gladiatorial fights and other games of the arena were completed.
"Bring forth the lion and Glaucus the Athenian," said the editor.
Just then a loud cry was heard at one of the entrances of the arena; the crowd gave way and suddenly Sallust appeared onthe senatorial benches, his hair disheveled; breathless; half exhausted—he cast his eyes hastily around the ring.
"Remove the Athenian," he cried, "haste,—he is innocent. Arrest Arbaces the Egyptian. He is the murderer of Apæcides."
"Art thou mad, O Sallust?" said the prætor, "what means this raving?"
"Remove the Athenian—quick, or his blood be on your head. I bring with me the eye-witness to the death of Apæcides. Room there—stand back—give way. People of Pompeii, fix every eye on Arbaces—there he sits—room there for the priest Calenus."
"Enough at present," said the prætor. "The details must be reserved for a more suiting time and place. Ho! guards! remove the accused Glaucus, arrest Arbaces, guard Calenus! Sallust, we hold you responsible for your accusation. Let the sports be resumed."
As the prætor gave the word of release, there was a cry of joy—a female voice—a child voice—and it was of joy! It rang through the heart of the assembly with electric force—it was touching, it was holy, that child's voice!
"Silence!" said the grave prætor—"who is there?"
"The blind girl—Nydia," answered Sallust; "it is her hand that raised Calenus from the grave and delivered Glaucus from the lion."
Stunned by his reprieve, doubting that he was awake, Glaucus had been led by the officers of the arena into a small cell within the walls of the theater. They threw a loose robe over his form and crowded around in congratulation and wonder. There was an impatient and fretful cry without the cell; the throng gave way, and the blind girl flung herself at the feet of Glaucus.
"It is I who saved thee," she sobbed, "now let me die!"
"Nydia, my child!—my preserver!"
"Oh, let me feel thy touch—thy breath! yes, yes, thou livest! We are not too late! That dread door methought would never yield! But thou livest! Thou livest yet!—and I—I have saved thee!"
FOOTNOTE:[11]Adapted by Robt. I. Fulton from "Last Days of Pompeii."
[11]Adapted by Robt. I. Fulton from "Last Days of Pompeii."
[11]Adapted by Robt. I. Fulton from "Last Days of Pompeii."
O Captain, my Captain! our fearful trip is done;The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won;The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;But, O heart, heart, heart! O the bleeding drops of red,Where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead.O Captain, my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;Here, Captain, dear father! this arm beneath your head!It is some dream that on the deck, you've fallen cold and dead.My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;My Captain does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage is closed and done;From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! but I with mournful treadWalk the deck where my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead.
O Captain, my Captain! our fearful trip is done;The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won;The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;But, O heart, heart, heart! O the bleeding drops of red,Where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead.
O Captain, my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But, O heart, heart, heart! O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead.
O Captain, my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;Here, Captain, dear father! this arm beneath your head!It is some dream that on the deck, you've fallen cold and dead.
O Captain, my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here, Captain, dear father! this arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck, you've fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;My Captain does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage is closed and done;From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! but I with mournful treadWalk the deck where my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My Captain does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage is closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! but I with mournful tread
Walk the deck where my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead.
FOOTNOTE:[12]By permission of David McKay, publisher.
[12]By permission of David McKay, publisher.
[12]By permission of David McKay, publisher.
"There, Simmons, you blockhead! Why didn't you trot that old woman aboard her train? She'll have to wait here now until the 1.05a.m."
"You didn't tell me."
"Yes, I did tell you. 'Twas only your confounded stupid carelessness."
"She—"
"She! You blockhead! What else could you expect of her! Probably she hasn't any wit; besides, she isn't bound on a very jolly journey—got a pass up the road to the poorhouse. I'll go and tell her, and if you forget her to-night, see if I don't make mince-meat of you!" and our worthy ticket agent shook his fist menacingly at his subordinate.
"You've missed your train, marm," he remarked, coming forward to a queer-looking bundle in the corner.
A trembling hand raised the faded black veil, and revealed the sweetest old face I ever saw.
"Never mind," said a quivering voice.
"'Tis only three o'clock now; you'll have to wait until the night train, which doesn't go up until 1.05."
"Very well, sir; I can wait."
"Wouldn't you like to go to some hotel? Simmons will show you the way."
"No, thank you, sir. One place is as good as another to me. Besides, I haven't any money."
"Very well," said the agent, turning away indifferently. "Simmons will tell you when it's time."
All the afternoon she sat there so quiet that I thought sometimes she must be asleep, but when I looked more closely Icould see every once in a while a great tear rolling down her cheek, which she would wipe away hastily with her cotton handkerchief.
The depot was crowded, and all was bustle and hurry until the 9.50 train going east came due; then every passenger left except the old lady. It is very rare, indeed, that any one takes the night express, and almost always after ten o'clock the depot becomes silent and empty.
The ticket agent put on his greatcoat, and, bidding Simmons keep his wits about him for once in his life, departed for home.
But he had no sooner gone than that functionary stretched himself out upon the table, as usual, and began to snore vociferously.
Then it was I witnessed such a sight as I never had before and never expect to again.
The fire had gone down—it was a cold night, and the wind howled dismally outside. The lamps grew dim and flared, casting weird shadows upon the wall. By and by I heard a smothered sob from the corner, then another. I looked in that direction. She had risen from her seat, and oh! the look of agony on the poor pinched face.
"I can't believe it," she sobbed, wringing her thin, white hands. "Oh! I can't believe it! My babies! my babies! how often have I held them in my arms and kissed them; and how often they used to say back to me, 'Ise love you, mamma,' and now, O God! they've turned against me. Where am I going? To the poorhouse! No! no! no! I cannot! I will not! Oh, the disgrace!"
And sinking upon her knees, she sobbed out in prayer:
"O God! spare me this and take me home! O God, spare me this disgrace; spare me!"
The wind rose higher and swept through the crevices, icy cold. How it moaned and seemed to sob like something human that is hurt. I began to shake, but the kneeling figure neverstirred. The thin shawl had dropped from her shoulders unheeded. Simmons turned over and drew his blanket more closely about him.
Oh, how cold! Only one lamp remained, burning dimly; the other two had gone out for want of oil. I could hardly see, it was so dark.
At last she became quieter and ceased to moan. Then I grew drowsy, and kind of lost the run of things after I had struck twelve, when some one entered the depot with a bright light. I started up. It was the brightest light I ever saw, and seemed to fill the room full of glory. I could see 'twas a man. He walked to the kneeling figure and touched her upon the shoulder. She started up and turned her face wildly around. I heard him say:—
"'Tis train time, ma'am. Come!"
A look of joy came over her face.
"I am ready," she whispered.
"Then give me your pass, ma'am."
She reached him a worn old book, which he took, and from it read aloud:—
"Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden and I will give you rest."
"That's the pass over our road, ma'am. Are you ready?"
The light died away, and darkness fell in its place. My hand touched the stroke of one. Simmons awoke with a start and snatched his lantern. The whistle sounded down brakes; the train was due. He ran to the corner and shook the old woman.
"Wake up, marm; 'tis train time."
But she never heeded. He gave one look at the white set face, and, dropping his lantern, fled.
The up train halted, the conductor shouted "All aboard," but no one made a move that way.
The next morning, when the ticket agent came, he foundher frozen to death. They whispered among themselves, and the coroner made out the verdict "apoplexy," and it was in some way hushed up.
But the last look on the sweet old face, lit up with a smile so unearthly, I keep with me yet; and when I think of the occurrence of that night, I know she went out on the other train, that never stopped at the poorhouse.
Of all the bonny buds that blow,In bright or cloudy weather,Of all the flowers that come and go,The whole twelve moons together,This little purple pansy brings,Thoughts of the sweetest, saddest things.I had a little lover once,Who used to give me posies;His eyes were blue as hyacinths,His lips were red as roses;And everybody loved to praiseHis pretty looks and winsome ways.The girls that went to school with meMade little jealous speeches,Because he brought me royallyHis biggest plums and peaches,And always at the door would wait,To carry home my books and slate.They couldn't see—with pout and fling—"The mighty fascinationAbout that little snub-nosed thing,To win such admiration;As if there weren't a dozen girlsWith nicer eyes and longer curls!"And this I knew as well as they,And never could see clearlyWhy, more than Marion or May,I should be loved so dearly.So once I asked him, why was this;He only answered with a kiss;Until I teased him: "Tell me why,I want to know the reason."Then from the garden-bed close by(The pansies were in season)He plucked and gave a flower to me,With sweet and simple gravity."The garden is in bloom," he said,"With lilies pale and slender,With roses and verbenas red,And fuchsias' purple splendor;But over and above the rest,This little heart's-ease suits me best.""Am I your little heart's-ease, then?"I asked with blushing pleasure.He answered "Yes!" and "Yes!" again—"Heart's-ease and dearest treasure;"That the round world and all the seaHeld nothing half so sweet as me!I listened with a proud delight,Too rare for words to capture,Nor ever dreamed what sudden blight,Would come to chill my rapture.Could I foresee the tender bloomOf pansies round a little tomb?Life holds some stern experience,As most of us discover,And I've had other losses sinceI lost my little lover;But still this purple pansy bringsThoughts of the sweetest, saddest things.
Of all the bonny buds that blow,In bright or cloudy weather,Of all the flowers that come and go,The whole twelve moons together,This little purple pansy brings,Thoughts of the sweetest, saddest things.
Of all the bonny buds that blow,
In bright or cloudy weather,
Of all the flowers that come and go,
The whole twelve moons together,
This little purple pansy brings,
Thoughts of the sweetest, saddest things.
I had a little lover once,Who used to give me posies;His eyes were blue as hyacinths,His lips were red as roses;And everybody loved to praiseHis pretty looks and winsome ways.
I had a little lover once,
Who used to give me posies;
His eyes were blue as hyacinths,
His lips were red as roses;
And everybody loved to praise
His pretty looks and winsome ways.
The girls that went to school with meMade little jealous speeches,Because he brought me royallyHis biggest plums and peaches,And always at the door would wait,To carry home my books and slate.
The girls that went to school with me
Made little jealous speeches,
Because he brought me royally
His biggest plums and peaches,
And always at the door would wait,
To carry home my books and slate.
They couldn't see—with pout and fling—"The mighty fascinationAbout that little snub-nosed thing,To win such admiration;As if there weren't a dozen girlsWith nicer eyes and longer curls!"
They couldn't see—with pout and fling—
"The mighty fascination
About that little snub-nosed thing,
To win such admiration;
As if there weren't a dozen girls
With nicer eyes and longer curls!"
And this I knew as well as they,And never could see clearlyWhy, more than Marion or May,I should be loved so dearly.So once I asked him, why was this;He only answered with a kiss;
And this I knew as well as they,
And never could see clearly
Why, more than Marion or May,
I should be loved so dearly.
So once I asked him, why was this;
He only answered with a kiss;
Until I teased him: "Tell me why,I want to know the reason."Then from the garden-bed close by(The pansies were in season)He plucked and gave a flower to me,With sweet and simple gravity.
Until I teased him: "Tell me why,
I want to know the reason."
Then from the garden-bed close by
(The pansies were in season)
He plucked and gave a flower to me,
With sweet and simple gravity.
"The garden is in bloom," he said,"With lilies pale and slender,With roses and verbenas red,And fuchsias' purple splendor;But over and above the rest,This little heart's-ease suits me best."
"The garden is in bloom," he said,
"With lilies pale and slender,
With roses and verbenas red,
And fuchsias' purple splendor;
But over and above the rest,
This little heart's-ease suits me best."
"Am I your little heart's-ease, then?"I asked with blushing pleasure.He answered "Yes!" and "Yes!" again—"Heart's-ease and dearest treasure;"That the round world and all the seaHeld nothing half so sweet as me!
"Am I your little heart's-ease, then?"
I asked with blushing pleasure.
He answered "Yes!" and "Yes!" again—
"Heart's-ease and dearest treasure;"
That the round world and all the sea
Held nothing half so sweet as me!
I listened with a proud delight,Too rare for words to capture,Nor ever dreamed what sudden blight,Would come to chill my rapture.Could I foresee the tender bloomOf pansies round a little tomb?
I listened with a proud delight,
Too rare for words to capture,
Nor ever dreamed what sudden blight,
Would come to chill my rapture.
Could I foresee the tender bloom
Of pansies round a little tomb?
Life holds some stern experience,As most of us discover,And I've had other losses sinceI lost my little lover;But still this purple pansy bringsThoughts of the sweetest, saddest things.
Life holds some stern experience,
As most of us discover,
And I've had other losses since
I lost my little lover;
But still this purple pansy brings
Thoughts of the sweetest, saddest things.
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 spake Lord Thomas Howard: "'Fore God I am no coward;But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear,And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick,We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?"Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: "I know you are no coward;You fly them for a moment to fight with them again.But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore;I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard,To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain."So Lord Howard passed away with five ships of war that day,Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven;But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the landVery carefully and slow,Men of Bideford and Devon,And we laid them on the ballast down below;For we brought them all aboard,And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain,To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord.He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight,And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sightWith his huge sea castles heaving upon the weather bow."Shall we fight or shall we fly?Good Sir Richard, let us know,For to fight is but to die!There'll be little of us left, by the time this sun be set."And Sir Richard said again: "We be all good Englishmen;Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil,For I never turned my back upon Don or Devil yet."Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a hurrah, and soThe little "Revenge" ran on, sheer into the heart of the foe,With her hundred fighters on deck and her ninety sick below;For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen,And the little "Revenge" ran on, thro' the long sea-lane between.Thousands of their soldiers looked down from their decks and laugh'd,Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craftRunning on and on, till delay'dBy 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 cloudWhence the thunderbolt will fallLong and loud,Four galleons drew awayFrom the Spanish fleet that day,And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay,And the battle-thunder broke from them all.And the sun went down, and the stars came out, far over the summer sea,But never a moment ceased 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 whole night long, with her 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?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 dressed, 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 summer sea,And the Spanish fleet, with broken sides, lay round us, all in a ring;But they dared not touch us again, for they feared that we still could sting,So they watched 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 lifeIn 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;But Sir Richard cried in his English pride:"We have fought such a fight for a day and a nightAs may never be fought again!We have won great glory, my men!And a day less or moreAt sea or ashore,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,And the Lord hath spared our lives.We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go;We shall live to fight again, and to strike another blow."And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe.And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then,Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last.And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace;But he rose upon their decks, and he cried:"I have fought for Queen and Faith, like a valiant man and true;I have only done my duty, as a man is bound to do;With a joyful spirit, I, Sir Richard Grenville, die!"And he fell upon their decks, and he died.And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true,And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap,That he dared her with one little ship and his English few;Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew,But they sank his body with honor down into the deep,And they mann'd the "Revenge" with a swarthier alien crew,And away she sail'd with her loss, and long'd for her own;When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from sleep,And the water began to heave, and the weather to moan,And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew,And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew,Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their flags,And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter'd navy of Spain,And the little "Revenge" herself went down by the island crags,To be lost evermore in the main.
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 spake Lord Thomas Howard: "'Fore God I am no coward;But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear,And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick,We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?"
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 spake Lord Thomas Howard: "'Fore God I am no coward;
But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear,
And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick,
We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?"
Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: "I know you are no coward;You fly them for a moment to fight with them again.But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore;I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard,To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain."
Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: "I know you are no coward;
You fly them for a moment to fight with them again.
But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore;
I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard,
To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain."
So Lord Howard passed away with five ships of war that day,Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven;But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the landVery carefully and slow,Men of Bideford and Devon,And we laid them on the ballast down below;For we brought them all aboard,And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain,To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord.
So Lord Howard passed away with five ships of war that day,
Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven;
But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land
Very carefully and slow,
Men of Bideford and Devon,
And we laid them on the ballast down below;
For we brought them all aboard,
And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain,
To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord.
He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight,And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sightWith his huge sea castles heaving upon the weather bow."Shall we fight or shall we fly?Good Sir Richard, let us know,For to fight is but to die!There'll be little of us left, by the time this sun be set."And Sir Richard said again: "We be all good Englishmen;Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil,For I never turned my back upon Don or Devil yet."
He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight,
And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight
With his huge sea castles heaving upon the weather bow.
"Shall we fight or shall we fly?
Good Sir Richard, let us know,
For to fight is but to die!
There'll be little of us left, by the time this sun be set."
And Sir Richard said again: "We be all good Englishmen;
Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil,
For I never turned my back upon Don or Devil yet."
Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a hurrah, and soThe little "Revenge" ran on, sheer into the heart of the foe,With her hundred fighters on deck and her ninety sick below;For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen,And the little "Revenge" ran on, thro' the long sea-lane between.
Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a hurrah, and so
The little "Revenge" ran on, sheer into the heart of the foe,
With her hundred fighters on deck and her ninety sick below;
For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen,
And the little "Revenge" ran on, thro' the long sea-lane between.
Thousands of their soldiers looked down from their decks and laugh'd,Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craftRunning on and on, till delay'dBy 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 cloudWhence the thunderbolt will fallLong and loud,Four galleons drew awayFrom the Spanish fleet that day,And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay,And the battle-thunder broke from them all.
Thousands of their soldiers looked 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
Whence 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.
And the sun went down, and the stars came out, far over the summer sea,But never a moment ceased 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 whole night long, with her 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?
And the sun went down, and the stars came out, far over the summer sea,
But never a moment ceased 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 whole night long, with her 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?
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 dressed, 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!"
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 dressed, 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 summer sea,And the Spanish fleet, with broken sides, lay round us, all in a ring;But they dared not touch us again, for they feared that we still could sting,So they watched 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 lifeIn the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife.
And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea,
And the Spanish fleet, with broken sides, lay round us, all in a ring;
But they dared not touch us again, for they feared that we still could sting,
So they watched 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;But Sir Richard cried in his English pride:"We have fought such a fight for a day and a nightAs may never be fought again!We have won great glory, my men!And a day less or moreAt sea or ashore,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 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;
But 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, my men!
And a day less or more
At sea or ashore,
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,And the Lord hath spared our lives.We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go;We shall live to fight again, and to strike another blow."And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe.
And the gunner said: "Ay, ay," but the seamen made reply:
"We have children, we have wives,
And the Lord hath spared our lives.
We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go;
We shall live to fight again, and to strike another blow."
And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe.
And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then,Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last.And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace;But he rose upon their decks, and he cried:"I have fought for Queen and Faith, like a valiant man and true;I have only done my duty, as a man is bound to do;With a joyful spirit, I, Sir Richard Grenville, die!"And he fell upon their decks, and he died.
And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then,
Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last.
And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace;
But he rose upon their decks, and he cried:
"I have fought for Queen and Faith, like a valiant man and true;
I have only done my duty, as a man is bound to do;
With a joyful spirit, I, Sir Richard Grenville, die!"
And he fell upon their decks, and he died.
And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true,And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap,That he dared her with one little ship and his English few;Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew,But they sank his body with honor down into the deep,And they mann'd the "Revenge" with a swarthier alien crew,And away she sail'd with her loss, and long'd for her own;When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from sleep,And the water began to heave, and the weather to moan,And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew,And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew,Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their flags,And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter'd navy of Spain,And the little "Revenge" herself went down by the island crags,To be lost evermore in the main.
And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true,
And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap,
That he dared her with one little ship and his English few;
Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew,
But they sank his body with honor down into the deep,
And they mann'd the "Revenge" with a swarthier alien crew,
And away she sail'd with her loss, and long'd for her own;
When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from sleep,
And the water began to heave, and the weather to moan,
And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew,
And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew,
Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their flags,
And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter'd navy of Spain,
And the little "Revenge" herself went down by the island crags,
To be lost evermore in the main.
It was the 7th of October, 1777. Horatio Gates stood before his tent, gazing steadfastly upon the two armies now arrayed in order of battle. It was a clear, bracing day, mellow with the richness of autumn. The sky was cloudless, the foliage of the wood scarce tinged with purple and gold, the buckwheat in yonder fields frostened into snowy ripeness. But the tread of legions shook the ground, from every bush shot the glimmer of the rifle barrel, on every hillside blazed the sharpened bayonet.Gates was sad and thoughtful, as he watched the evolutions of the two armies. But all at once a smoke arose, a thunder shook the ground and a chorus of shouts and groans yelled along the darkened air. The play of death had begun. The two flags, this of the stars, that of the red cross, tossed amid the smoke of battle, while the sky was clouded with leaden folds, and the earth throbbed with the pulsations of a mighty heart.
Suddenly, Gates and his officers were startled. Along the height on which they stood came a rider on a black horse, rushing towards the distant battle. There was something in the appearance of this horse and his rider that struck them with surprise. Look! he draws his sword, the sharp blade quivers through the air, he points to the distant battle and lo! he is gone; gone through those clouds, while his shout echoes over the plains. Wherever the fight is thickest, there through intervals of cannon-smoke you may see riding madly forward that strange soldier, mounted on his steed black as death. Look at him, as with face red with British blood he waves his sword and shouts to his legions. Now you may see him fighting in that cannon's glare, and the next moment he is away off yonder, leading the forlorn hope up that steep cliff. Is it not a magnificent sight, to see that strange soldier and that noble black horse dashing, like a meteor, down the long columns of battle?
Let us look for a moment into those dense war-clouds. Over this thick hedge bursts a band of American militiamen, their rude farmer-coats stained with blood, while scattering their arms by the way, they flee before that company of red-coat hirelings, who come rushing forward, their solid front of bayonets gleaming in the battle light. At this moment of their flight, a horse comes crashing over the plains. The unknown rider reins his steed back on his haunches, right in the path of a broad-shouldered militiaman. "Now, cowards! advance another step and I'll strike you to the heart!" shouts theunknown, extending a pistol in either hand. "What! are you Americans, men, and fly before British soldiers? Back again, and face them once more, or I myself will ride you down!"
This appeal was not without its effect. The militiaman turns; his comrades, as if by one impulse, follow his example. In one line, but thirty men in all, they confront thirty sharp bayonets. The British advance. "Now upon the rebels, charge!" shouts the red-coat officer. They spring forward at the same bound. Look! their bayonets almost touch the muzzles of their rifles. At this moment the voice of the unknown rider was heard: "Now let them have it! Fire!" A sound is heard, a smoke is seen, twenty Britons are down, some writhing in death, some crawling along the soil, and some speechless as stone. The remaining ten start back. "Club your rifles and charge them home!" shouts the unknown. That black horse springs forward, followed by the militiamen. Then a confused conflict, a cry for quarter, and a vision of twenty farmers grouped around the rider of the black horse, greeting him with cheers.
Thus it was all the day long. Wherever that black horse and his rider went, there followed victory. At last, towards the setting of the sun, the crisis of the conflict came. That fortress yonder, on Bemus Heights, must be won, or the American cause is lost! That cliff is too steep—that death is too certain. The officers cannot persuade the men to advance. The Americans have lost the field. Even Morgan, that iron man among iron men, leans on his rifle and despairs of the field. But look yonder! In this moment when all is dismay and horror, here, crashing on, comes the black horse and his rider. That rider bends upon his steed, his frenzied face covered with sweat and dust and blood; he lays his hand upon that bold rifleman's shoulder, and as though living fire had been poured into his veins, he seizes his rifle and starts toward the rock. And now look! now hold your breath, as that blacksteed crashes up that steep cliff. That steed quivers! he totters! he falls! No! No! Still on, still up the cliff, still on towards the fortress. The rider turns his face and shouts, "Come on, men of Quebec! come on!" That call is needless. Already the bold riflemen are on the rock. Now, British cannon, pour your fires, and lay your dead in tens and twenties on the rock. Now, red-coat hirelings, shout your battle-cry if you can! For look! there, in the gate of the fortress, as the smoke clears away, stands the black horse and his rider. That steed falls dead, pierced by an hundred balls; but his rider, as the British cry for quarter, lifts up his voice and shouts afar to Horatio Gates waiting yonder in his tent, "Saratoga is won!" As that cry goes up to heaven, he falls with his leg shattered by a cannon-ball.
Who was the rider of the black horse? Do you not guess his name? Then bend down and gaze on that shattered limb, and you will see that it bears the mark of a former wound. That wound was received in the storming of Quebec. The rider of the black horse was Benedict Arnold.
Methought the stars were blinking bright,And the old brig's sails unfurl'd;I said: "I will sail to my love this night,At the other side of the world."I stepp'd aboard—we sail'd so fast—The sun shot up from the bourn;But a dove that perch'd upon the mastDid mourn, and mourn, and mourn.O fair dove! O fond dove!And dove with the white, white breast—Let me alone, the dream is my own,And my heart is full of rest.My true love fares on this great hill,Feeding his sheep for aye;I look'd in his hut, but all was still,My love was gone away.I went to gaze in the forest creek,And the dove mourn'd on apace;No flame did flash, nor fair blue reekRose up to show me his place.O last love! O first love!My love with the true, true heart,To think I have come to this your home,And yet—we are apart!My love! He stood at my right hand,His eyes were grave and sweet;Methought he said: "In this far land,O, is it thus we meet?Ah, maid most dear, I am not here;I have no place, no part,No dwelling more by sea or shore,But only in thy heart."O fair dove! O fond dove!Till night rose over the bourn,The dove on the mast, as we sail'd fast,Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn.
Methought the stars were blinking bright,And the old brig's sails unfurl'd;I said: "I will sail to my love this night,At the other side of the world."I stepp'd aboard—we sail'd so fast—The sun shot up from the bourn;But a dove that perch'd upon the mastDid mourn, and mourn, and mourn.O fair dove! O fond dove!And dove with the white, white breast—Let me alone, the dream is my own,And my heart is full of rest.
Methought the stars were blinking bright,
And the old brig's sails unfurl'd;
I said: "I will sail to my love this night,
At the other side of the world."
I stepp'd aboard—we sail'd so fast—
The sun shot up from the bourn;
But a dove that perch'd upon the mast
Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn.
O fair dove! O fond dove!
And dove with the white, white breast—
Let me alone, the dream is my own,
And my heart is full of rest.
My true love fares on this great hill,Feeding his sheep for aye;I look'd in his hut, but all was still,My love was gone away.I went to gaze in the forest creek,And the dove mourn'd on apace;No flame did flash, nor fair blue reekRose up to show me his place.O last love! O first love!My love with the true, true heart,To think I have come to this your home,And yet—we are apart!
My true love fares on this great hill,
Feeding his sheep for aye;
I look'd in his hut, but all was still,
My love was gone away.
I went to gaze in the forest creek,
And the dove mourn'd on apace;
No flame did flash, nor fair blue reek
Rose up to show me his place.
O last love! O first love!
My love with the true, true heart,
To think I have come to this your home,
And yet—we are apart!
My love! He stood at my right hand,His eyes were grave and sweet;Methought he said: "In this far land,O, is it thus we meet?Ah, maid most dear, I am not here;I have no place, no part,No dwelling more by sea or shore,But only in thy heart."O fair dove! O fond dove!Till night rose over the bourn,The dove on the mast, as we sail'd fast,Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn.
My love! He stood at my right hand,
His eyes were grave and sweet;
Methought he said: "In this far land,
O, is it thus we meet?
Ah, maid most dear, I am not here;
I have no place, no part,
No dwelling more by sea or shore,
But only in thy heart."
O fair dove! O fond dove!
Till night rose over the bourn,
The dove on the mast, as we sail'd fast,
Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn.
"O Mary go and call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,Across the sands o' Dee!"The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam,And all alone went she.The creeping tide came up along the sand,And o'er and o'er the sand,And round and round the sand,As far as eye could see;The blinding mist came down and hid the land—And never home came she."Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—A tress o' golden hair,O' drowned maiden's hairAbove the nets at sea?Was never salmon yet that shone so fair,Among the stakes o' Dee."They rowed her in across the rolling foam,The cruel, crawling foam,The cruel, hungry foam,—To her grave beside the sea;But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,Across the sands o' Dee.
"O Mary go and call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,Across the sands o' Dee!"The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam,And all alone went she.
"O Mary go and call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
Across the sands o' Dee!"
The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam,
And all alone went she.
The creeping tide came up along the sand,And o'er and o'er the sand,And round and round the sand,As far as eye could see;The blinding mist came down and hid the land—And never home came she.
The creeping tide came up along the sand,
And o'er and o'er the sand,
And round and round the sand,
As far as eye could see;
The blinding mist came down and hid the land—
And never home came she.
"Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—A tress o' golden hair,O' drowned maiden's hairAbove the nets at sea?Was never salmon yet that shone so fair,Among the stakes o' Dee."
"Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—
A tress o' golden hair,
O' drowned maiden's hair
Above the nets at sea?
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair,
Among the stakes o' Dee."
They rowed her in across the rolling foam,The cruel, crawling foam,The cruel, hungry foam,—To her grave beside the sea;But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,Across the sands o' Dee.
They rowed her in across the rolling foam,
The cruel, crawling foam,
The cruel, hungry foam,—
To her grave beside the sea;
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,
Across the sands o' Dee.
The following advertisement appeared in the morning papers:
Education.—At Mr. Wackford Squeers's Academy, Dotheboys Hall at the delightful village of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire, Youth are boarded, clothed, booked, furnished with pocket money, provided with all necessaries, instructed in all languages living and dead, mathematics, orthography, geometry, astronomy, trigonometry, the use of the globes, algebra, single-stick, if required, writing, arithmetic, fortification, and every other branch of classical literature. Terms twenty guineas per annum. No extras, no vacations, and diet unparalleled. Mr. Squeers is in town and attendsdaily, from one till four, at the Saracen's Head, Snow Hill. N.B. An able assistant wanted. Annual salary, five pounds. A Master of Arts would be preferred.
Education.—At Mr. Wackford Squeers's Academy, Dotheboys Hall at the delightful village of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire, Youth are boarded, clothed, booked, furnished with pocket money, provided with all necessaries, instructed in all languages living and dead, mathematics, orthography, geometry, astronomy, trigonometry, the use of the globes, algebra, single-stick, if required, writing, arithmetic, fortification, and every other branch of classical literature. Terms twenty guineas per annum. No extras, no vacations, and diet unparalleled. Mr. Squeers is in town and attendsdaily, from one till four, at the Saracen's Head, Snow Hill. N.B. An able assistant wanted. Annual salary, five pounds. A Master of Arts would be preferred.
Nicholas Nickleby obtained the above situation, having found that it was not absolutely necessary to have acquired the degree, and arrived at the inn, to join Mr. Squeers, at eight o'clock of a November morning. He found that learned gentleman sitting at breakfast, with five little boys in a row on the opposite seat. Mr. Squeers had before him a small measure of coffee, a plate of hot toast, and a cold round of beef; but he was at that moment intent on preparing breakfast for the little boys. "This is two penn'orth of milk, is it, waiter?" said Squeers, looking down into a large blue mug, and slanting it gently, so as to get an accurate view of the quantity of liquid contained in it.
"That's two penn'orth, sir," replied the waiter.
"What a rare article milk is, to be sure, in London! Just fill that mug up with lukewarm water, William, will you?"
"To the very top, sir? Why, the milk will be drowned."
"Never you mind that. Serve it right for being so dear. You ordered that thick bread and butter for three, did you?"
"Coming directly, sir."
"You needn't hurry yourself, there's plenty of time. Conquer your passions, boys, and don't be eager after vittles." As he uttered this moral precept, Mr. Squeers took a large bite out of the cold beef, and recognized Nicholas.
"Sit down, Mr. Nickleby. Here we are, a-breakfasting, you see! Oh! that's the milk and water, is it, William? Very good; don't forget the bread and butter presently. Ah! here's richness! Think of the many beggars and orphans in the streets that would be glad of this, little boys. A shocking thing hunger is, isn't it, Mr. Nickleby?"
"Very shocking, sir," said Nicholas.
"When I say number one, the boy on the left hand nearestthe window may take a drink; and when I say number two, the boy next him will go in, and so till we come to number five which is the last boy. Are you ready?
"Yes, sir," cried all the little boys.
"That's right, keep ready till I tell you to begin. Subdue your appetites, boys, and you've conquered human nature. This is the way we inculcate strength of mind, Mr. Nickleby. Number one may take a drink."
Number one seized the mug ravenously, and had just drunk enough to make him wish for more, when Mr. Squeers gave the signal for number two, who gave up at the same interesting moment to number three; and the process was repeated until the milk and water terminated with number five.
"And now," said Squeers, dividing the bread for three into as many portions as there were children, "You had better look sharp with your breakfast, for the horn will blow in a minute or two, and then every boy leaves off.—Ah! I thought it wouldn't be long; put what you haven't had time to eat in here, boys! You'll want it on the road." Which they certainly did, for the air was cool, and the journey was long and tiresome. However, they arrived quite safely; and Nicholas, weary, retired to rest.
In the morning he was taken to the school-room accompanied by Squeers.
"There, this is our shop, Nickleby." It was a crowded scene. A bare and dirty room, with a couple of windows, whereof a tenth part might be of glass, the remainder being stopped up with old copybooks and paper. Pale and haggard faces, lank and bony figures, little faces, which should have been handsome, darkened with the scowl of sullen, dogged suffering. There was childhood with the light of its eye quenched, its beauty gone and its helplessness alone remaining—truly an incipient Hell. A few minutes having elapsed, Squeers called up the first class.
"This is the first class in English, spelling, and philosophy,Nickleby. We'll get up a Latin one, and hand that over to you. Now then, where's the first boy?"
"Please, sir, he's cleaning the back parlor window."
"So he is, to be sure. We go upon the practical mode of teaching, Nickleby, the regular educational system. C-l-e-a-n, clean. Verb active. To make bright, to scour. W-i-n, win, d-e-r, der, winder. A casement. When a boy knows this out of his book he goes and does it. It's just the same principle as the use of the globes. Where's the second boy?"
"Please, sir, he's weeding the garden."
"To be sure, so he is. B-o-t, bot, t-i-n, tin, bottin, n-e-y, ney, bottinney. Noun substantive. A knowledge of plants. When a boy learns that bottinney is a knowledge of plants, he goes and knows 'em. That's our system, Nickleby. Third boy, what's a horse?"
"A beast, sir."
"So it is. A horse is a quadruped, and quadruped is Latin for beast, as everybody that's gone through the grammar knows, or else where's the use of havin' grammars at all? As you're perfect in that, go and look after my horse, and rub him down well or I'll rub you down. The rest of the class go and draw water up, till somebody tells you to leave off, for it's washing day to-morrow and they want the coppers filled."
So saying, he dismissed his first class to their experiments in practical philosophy.
It was Squeers's custom to call the boys together, and make a sort of report, after every half-yearly visit to the metropolis. They were therefore soon recalled from the house, window, garden, stable, and cow yard, and Mr. Squeers entered the room. A deathlike silence immediately prevailed.
"Boys, I've been to London, and have returned to my family and you as strong and as well as ever."
According to half-yearly custom, the boys gave three feeble cheers at this refreshing intelligence. Such cheers! Sighs of extra strength with the chill on.
"I have seen the parents of some boys, and they're so glad to hear how their sons are getting on, that there's no prospect at all of their going away, which of course is a very pleasant thing to reflect upon for all parties. But I've had disappointments to contend against. Bolder's father was two pound ten short. Where is Bolder?
"Here he is, please, sir."
"Come here, Bolder," said Squeers.
An unhealthy boy with warts all over his hands, stepped from his place to the Master's desk, and raised his eyes imploringly to Squeers's face.
"Bolder, if your father thinks that because—why, what's this, sir?"
As Squeers spoke, he caught up the boy's hand by the cuff of his jacket, and surveyed the warts with an edifying aspect of horror and disgust.
"What do you call this, sir?"
"I can't help it, indeed, sir. They will come; it's the dirty work, I think, sir—at least I don't know what it is, sir, but it's not my fault."
"Bolder, you're an incorrigible young scoundrel, and as the last thrashing did you no good, we'll see what another will do towards beating it out of you."
With this, and wholly disregarding a piteous cry for mercy, Mr. Squeers fell upon the boy and caned him soundly; not leaving off, indeed, until his arm was tired out.
"There, rub away as hard as you like, you won't rub that off in a hurry. Now let us see. A letter for Cobbey. Stand up, Cobbey. Oh! Cobbey's grandmother is dead, and his uncle John has took to drinking, which is all the news his sister sends, except eighteen pence, which will just pay for that broken square of glass. Mrs. Squeers, my dear, will you take the money?
"Graymarsh, he's the next. Stand up, Graymarsh. Graymarsh's aunt is very glad to hear he's so well and happy, andsends her respectful compliments to Mrs. Squeers and thinks she must be an angel. She likewise thinks that Mr. Squeers is too good for this world, but hopes he may long be spared to carry on the business. Would have sent the two pairs of stockings as desired, but is short of money, so forwards a tract instead, and hopes that Graymarsh will put his trust in Providence. Hopes, above all, that he will study in everything to please Mr. and Mrs. Squeers, and look upon them as his only friends; and that he will love master Squeers, and not object to sleeping five in a bed, which no Christian should. Ah! a delightful letter. Very affecting indeed.
"Mobbs!—Mobbs's mother-in-law took to her bed on hearing that he wouldn't eat fat, and has been very ill ever since. She wishes to know, by an early post, where he expects to go to if he quarrels with his vittles; and with what feelings he could turn up his nose at the cow's liver broth, after his good master had asked a blessing on it. This was told her in the London newspapers—not by Mr. Squeers, for he's too kind and good to set anybody against anybody. She is sorry to find he is discontented, which is sinful and horrid, and hopes Mr. Squeers will flog him into a happier state of mind. With which view she has also stopped his half penny a week pocket-money, and given a double-bladed knife with a cork-screw in it to the missionaries, which she had bought on purpose for him. A sulky state of feeling won't do. Cheerfulness and contentment must be kept up. Mobbs, come to me!"
Mobbs moved slowly towards the desk, rubbing his eyes in anticipation of good cause for doing so; and he soon afterwards retired, with as good cause as a boy need have.
This business dispatched, a few slovenly lessons were performed, and Squeers retired to his fireside, leaving Nicholas to take care of the boys in the school-room which was very cold, and where a meal of bread was served out shortly after dark.
There was a small stove at that corner of the room which wasnearest the master's desk, and by it Nicholas sat down, depressed and self-degraded.
As he was absorbed in his meditations, he all at once encountered the upturned face of Smike, who was on his knees before the stove, picking a few stray cinders from the hearth and planting them on the fire. He had paused to steal a look at Nicholas, and when he saw that he was observed, shrank back, as if expecting a blow.
"You need not fear me. Are you cold?"
"N-n-o."
"You are shivering."
"I'm not cold. I'm used to it."
There was such an obvious fear of giving offense in his manner, and he was such a timid, broken-spirited creature, that Nicholas could not help exclaiming, "Poor fellow!"
"Oh dear, oh dear! my heart will break. It will, it will!" said Smike.
"Hush! Be a man; you are nearly one by years. God help you!"
"By years! Oh dear, dear, how many of them! How many of them since I was a little child, younger than any that are here now! Where are they all?"
"Of whom do you speak? Tell me."
"My friends, myself—my—oh! what sufferings mine have been!"
"There is always hope."
"No, no; none for me. Do you remember the boy that died here?"
"I was not here, you know."
"Why, I was with him at night, and when it was all silent, he cried no more for friends he wished to come and sit with him, but began to see faces round his bed that came from home. He said they smiled, and talked to him; and he died at last lifting his head to kiss them. Do you hear?"
"Yes, yes," rejoined Nicholas.
"What faces will smile on me when I die? Who will talk to me in those long nights? They cannot come from home; they would frighten me if they did, for I shouldn't know them. Pain and fear, pain and fear for me, alive or dead. No hope, no hope!"
The bell rang to bed; and the boy, subsiding at the sound into his usual listless state, crept away as if anxious to avoid notice. It was with a heavy heart that Nicholas soon afterwards—no, not retired, there was no retirement there—followed to his dirty and crowded dormitory.