ENVY.

The Mill Stream.

Long trails of cistus flowersCreep on the rocky hill,And beds of strong spearmintGrow round about the mill;And from a mountain tarn above,As peaceful as a dream,Like to a child unruly,Though school'd and counsell'd truly,Roams down the wild mill stream!The wild mill stream it dashethIn merriment away,And keeps the miller and his sonSo busy all the day.Into the mad mill streamThe mountain roses fall;And fern and adder's-tongueGrow on the old mill wall.The tarn is on the upland moor,Where not a leaf doth grow;And through the mountain gashes,The merry mill stream dashesDown to the sea below.But in the quiet hollowsThe red trout groweth prime,For the miller and the miller's sonTo angle when they've time.Then fair befall the streamThat turns the mountain mill;And fair befall the narrow roadThat windeth up the hill!And good luck to the countryman,And to his old grey mare,That upward toileth steadily,With meal sacks laden heavily,In storm as well as fair!And good luck to the miller,And to the miller's son;And ever may the mill-wheel turnWhile mountain waters run!Mary Howitt.

Long trails of cistus flowers

Creep on the rocky hill,

And beds of strong spearmint

Grow round about the mill;

And from a mountain tarn above,

As peaceful as a dream,

Like to a child unruly,

Though school'd and counsell'd truly,

Roams down the wild mill stream!

The wild mill stream it dasheth

In merriment away,

And keeps the miller and his son

So busy all the day.

Into the mad mill streamThe mountain roses fall;And fern and adder's-tongueGrow on the old mill wall.The tarn is on the upland moor,Where not a leaf doth grow;And through the mountain gashes,The merry mill stream dashesDown to the sea below.But in the quiet hollowsThe red trout groweth prime,For the miller and the miller's sonTo angle when they've time.

Into the mad mill stream

The mountain roses fall;

And fern and adder's-tongue

Grow on the old mill wall.

The tarn is on the upland moor,

Where not a leaf doth grow;

And through the mountain gashes,

The merry mill stream dashes

Down to the sea below.

But in the quiet hollows

The red trout groweth prime,

For the miller and the miller's son

To angle when they've time.

Then fair befall the streamThat turns the mountain mill;And fair befall the narrow roadThat windeth up the hill!And good luck to the countryman,And to his old grey mare,That upward toileth steadily,With meal sacks laden heavily,In storm as well as fair!And good luck to the miller,And to the miller's son;And ever may the mill-wheel turnWhile mountain waters run!

Then fair befall the stream

That turns the mountain mill;

And fair befall the narrow road

That windeth up the hill!

And good luck to the countryman,

And to his old grey mare,

That upward toileth steadily,

With meal sacks laden heavily,

In storm as well as fair!

And good luck to the miller,

And to the miller's son;

And ever may the mill-wheel turn

While mountain waters run!

Mary Howitt.

Letter E.

Envy is almost the only vice which is practicable at all times, and in every place—the only passion which can never lie quiet for want of irritation; its effects, therefore, are everywhere discoverable, and its attempts always to be dreaded.

It is impossible to mention a name, which any advantageous distinction has made eminent, but some latent animosity will burst out. The wealthy trader, however he may abstract himself from public affairs, will never want those who hint with Shylock, that ships are but boards, and that no man can properly be termed rich whose fortune is at the mercy of the winds. The beauty adorned only with the unambitious graces of innocence and modesty, provokes, whenever she appears, a thousand murmurs of detraction and whispers of suspicion. The genius, even when he endeavours only to entertain with pleasing; images of nature, or instruct by uncontested principles of science, yet suffers persecution from innumerable critics, whose acrimony is excited merely by the pain of seeing others pleased—of hearing applauses which another enjoys.

The frequency of envy makes it so familiar that it escapes our notice; nor do we often reflect upon its turpitude or malignity, till we happen to feel its influence. When he that has given no provocation to malice, but by attempting to excel in some useful art, finds himself pursued by multitudes whom he never saw with implacability of personal resentment; when he perceives clamour and malice let loose upon him as a public enemy, and incited by every stratagem of defamation; when he hears the misfortunes of his family or the follies of his youth exposed to the world; and every failure of conduct, or defect of nature, aggravated and ridiculed; he then learns to abhor those artifices at which he only laughed before, and discovers how much the happiness of life would be advanced by the eradication of envy from the human heart.

Envy is, indeed, a stubborn weed of the mind, and seldom yields to the culture of philosophy. There are, however, considerations which, if carefully implanted, and diligently propagated, might in time overpower and repress it, since no one can nurse it for the sake of pleasure, as its effects are only shame, anguish, and perturbation. It is, above all other vices, inconsistent with the character of a social being, because it sacrifices truth and kindness to very weak temptations. He that plunders a wealthy neighbour, gains as much as he takes away, and improves his own condition in the same proportion as he impairs another's; but he that blasts a flourishing reputation, must be content with a small dividend of additional fame, so small as can afford very little consolation to balance the guilt by which it is obtained.

I have hitherto avoided mentioning that dangerous and empirical morality, which cures one vice by means of another. But envy is so base and detestable, so vile in its original, and so pernicious in its effects, that the predominance of almost any other quality is to be desired. It is one of those lawless enemies of society, against which poisoned arrows may honestly be used. Let it therefore be constantly remembered, that whoever envies another, confesses his superiority; and let those be reformed by their pride, who have lost their virtue.

Almost every other crime is practised by the help of some quality which might have produced esteem or love, if it had been well employed; but envy is a more unmixed and genuine evil; it pursues a hateful end by despicable means, and desires not so much its own happiness as another's misery. To avoid depravity like this, it is not necessary that any one should aspire to heroism or sanctity; but only that he should resolve not to quit the rank which nature assigns, and wish to maintain the dignity of a human being.

Dr. Johnson.

No tree is more frequently mentioned by ancient authors, nor was any more highly honoured by ancient nations, than the olive. By the Greeks it was dedicated to the goddess of wisdom, and formed the crown of honour given to their Emperors and great men, as with the Romans. It is a tree of slow growth, but remarkable for the great age it attains; never, however, becoming a very large tree, though sometimes two or three stems rise from the same root, and reach the height of from twenty to thirty feet. The leaves grow in pairs, lanceolate in shape, of a dull green on the upper, and hoary on the under side. Hence, in countries where the olive is extensively cultivated, the scenery is of a dull character, from this colour of the foliage. The fruit is oval in shape, with a hard strong kernel, and remarkable from the outer fleshy part being that in which much oil is lodged, and not, as is usual, in the seed. It ripens from August to September.

Of the olive-tree two varieties are particularly distinguished: the long-leafed, which is cultivated in the south of France and in Italy; and the broad-leafed in Spain, which has its fruit much longer than that of the former kind.

Olive Trees, Gethsemane.

That the olive grows to a great age, has long been known. Pliny mentions one which the Athenians of his time considered to be coëval with their city, and therefore 1600 years old; and near Terni, in the vale of the cascade of Marmora, there is a plantation of very old trees, supposed to consist of the same plants that were growing there in the time of Pliny. Lady Calcott states that on the mountain road between Tivoli and Palestrina, there is an ancient olive-tree of large dimensions, which, unless the documents are purposely falsified, stood as a boundary between two possessions even before the Christian era. Those in the garden of Olivet or Gethsemane are at least of the time of the Eastern Empire, as is proved by the following circumstance:—In Turkey every olive-tree found standing by the Mussulmans, when they conquered Asia, pays one medina to the treasury, while each of those planted since the conquest is taxed half its produce. The eight olives of which we are speaking are charged only eight medinas. By some it is supposed that these olive-trees may have been in existence even in the time of our Saviour; the largest is about thirty feet in girth above the roots, and twenty-seven feet high.

Letter T.

There is a beautiful propriety in the order in which Nature seems to have directed the singing-birds to fill up the day with their pleasing harmony. The accordance between their songs and the external aspect of nature, at the successive periods of the day at which they sing, is quite remarkable. And it is impossible to visit the forest or the sequestered dell, where the notes of the feathered tribes are heard to the greatest advantage, without being impressed with the conviction that there is design in the arrangement of this sylvan minstrelsy.—

The Robin.

First the robin (and not the lark, as has been generally imagined), as soon as twilight has drawn its imperceptible line between night and day, begins his lovely song. How sweetly does this harmonise with the soft dawning of the day! He goes on till the twinkling sun-beams begin to tell him that his notes no longer accord with the rising scene. Up starts the lark, and with him a variety of sprightly songsters, whose lively notes are in perfect correspondence with the gaiety of the morning. The general warbling continues, with now and then an interruption by the transient croak of the raven, the scream of the jay, or the pert chattering of the daw. The nightingale, unwearied by the vocal exertions of the night, joins his inferiors in sound in the general harmony. The thrush is wisely placed on the summit of some lofty tree, that its loud and piercing notes may be softened by distance before they reach the ear; while the mellow blackbird seeks the inferior branches.

The Lark.

Should the sun, having been eclipsed by a cloud, shine forth with fresh effulgence, how frequently we see the goldfinch perch on some blossomed bough, and hear its song poured forth in a strain peculiarly energetic; while the sun, full shining on his beautiful plumes, displays his golden wings and crimson crest to charming advantage. The notes of the cuckoo blend with this cheering concert in a pleasing manner, and for a short time are highly grateful to the ear. But sweet as this singular song is, it would tire by its uniformity, were it not given in so transient a manner.

The Linnet.

At length evening advances, the performers gradually retire, and the concert softly dies away. The sun is seen no more. The robin again sends up his twilight song, till the more serene hour of night sets him to the bower to rest. And now to close the scene in full and perfect harmony; no sooner is the voice of the robin hushed, and night again spreads in gloom over the horizon, than the owl sends forth his slow and solemn tones. They are more than plaintive and less than melancholy, and tend to inspire the imagination with a train of contemplations well adapted to the serious hour.

Thus we see that birds bear no inconsiderable share in harmonizing some of the most beautiful and interesting scenes in nature.

Dr. Jenner.

Thus died Edward VI., in the sixteenth year of his age. He was counted the wonder of his time; he was not only learned in the tongues and the liberal sciences, but he knew well the state of his kingdom. He kept a table-book, in which he had written the characters of all the eminent men of the nation: he studied fortification, and understood the mint well. He knew the harbours in all his dominions, with the depth of the water, and way of coming into them. He understood foreign affairs so well, that the ambassadors who were sent into England, published very extraordinary things of him in all the courts of Europe. He had great quickness of apprehension, but being distrustful of his memory, he took notes of everything he heard that was considerable, in Greek characters, that those about him might not understand what he writ, which he afterwards copied out fair in the journal that he kept. His virtues were wonderful; when he was made to believe that his uncle was guilty of conspiring the death of the other councillors, he upon that abandoned him.

Barnaby Fitzpatrick was his favourite; and when he sent him to travel, he writ oft to him to keep good company, to avoid excess and luxury, and to improve himself in those things that might render him capable of employment at his return. He was afterwards made Lord of Upper Ossory, in Ireland, by Queen Elizabeth, and did answer the hopes this excellent King had of him. He was very merciful in his nature, which appeared in his unwillingness to sign the warrant for burning the Maid of Kent. He took great care to have his debts well paid, reckoning that a Prince who breaks his faith and loses his credit, has thrown up that which he can never recover, and made himself liable to perpetual distrust and extreme contempt. He took special care of the petitions that were given him by poor and opprest people. But his great zeal for religion crowned all the rest—it was a true tenderness of conscience, founded on the love of God and his neighbour. These extraordinary qualities, set off with great sweetness and affability, made him universally beloved by his people.

Burnet.

Letter W.What sounds are on the mountain blast,Like bullet from the arbalast?Was it the hunted quarry pastRight up Ben-ledi's side?So near, so rapidly, he dash'd,Yon lichen'd bough has scarcely plash'dInto the torrent's tide.Ay! the good hound may bay beneath,The hunter wind his horn;He dared ye through the flooded Teith,As a warrior in his scorn!Dash the red rowel in the steed!Spur, laggards, while ye may!St. Hubert's staff to a stripling reed,He dies no death to-day!"Forward!" nay, waste not idle breath,Gallants, ye win no greenwood wreath;His antlers dance above the heath,Like chieftain's plumed helm;Right onward for the western peak,Where breaks the sky in one white streak,See, Isabel, in bold relief,To Fancy's eye, Glenartney's chief,Guarding his ancient realm.So motionless, so noiseless there,His foot on rock, his head in air,Like sculptor's breathing stone:Then, snorting from the rapid race,Snuffs the free air a moment's space,Glares grimly on the baffled chase,And seeks the covert lone.

What sounds are on the mountain blast,Like bullet from the arbalast?Was it the hunted quarry pastRight up Ben-ledi's side?So near, so rapidly, he dash'd,Yon lichen'd bough has scarcely plash'dInto the torrent's tide.Ay! the good hound may bay beneath,The hunter wind his horn;He dared ye through the flooded Teith,As a warrior in his scorn!Dash the red rowel in the steed!Spur, laggards, while ye may!St. Hubert's staff to a stripling reed,He dies no death to-day!"Forward!" nay, waste not idle breath,Gallants, ye win no greenwood wreath;His antlers dance above the heath,Like chieftain's plumed helm;Right onward for the western peak,Where breaks the sky in one white streak,See, Isabel, in bold relief,To Fancy's eye, Glenartney's chief,Guarding his ancient realm.So motionless, so noiseless there,His foot on rock, his head in air,Like sculptor's breathing stone:Then, snorting from the rapid race,Snuffs the free air a moment's space,Glares grimly on the baffled chase,And seeks the covert lone.

What sounds are on the mountain blast,

Like bullet from the arbalast?

Was it the hunted quarry past

Right up Ben-ledi's side?

So near, so rapidly, he dash'd,

Yon lichen'd bough has scarcely plash'd

Into the torrent's tide.

Ay! the good hound may bay beneath,

The hunter wind his horn;

He dared ye through the flooded Teith,

As a warrior in his scorn!

Dash the red rowel in the steed!

Spur, laggards, while ye may!

St. Hubert's staff to a stripling reed,

He dies no death to-day!

"Forward!" nay, waste not idle breath,

Gallants, ye win no greenwood wreath;

His antlers dance above the heath,

Like chieftain's plumed helm;

Right onward for the western peak,

Where breaks the sky in one white streak,

See, Isabel, in bold relief,

To Fancy's eye, Glenartney's chief,

Guarding his ancient realm.

So motionless, so noiseless there,

His foot on rock, his head in air,

Like sculptor's breathing stone:

Then, snorting from the rapid race,

Snuffs the free air a moment's space,

Glares grimly on the baffled chase,

And seeks the covert lone.

Hunting has been a favourite sport in Britain for many centuries. Dyonisius (B.C. 50) tells us that the North Britons lived, in great part, upon the food they procured by hunting. Strabo states that the dogs bred in Britain were highly esteemed on the Continent, on account of their excellent qualities for hunting; and Caesar tells us that venison constituted a great portion of the food of the Britons, who did not eat hares. Hunting was also in ancient times a Royal and noble sport: Alfred the Great hunted at twelve years of age; Athelstan, Edward the Confessor, Harold, William the Conqueror, William Rufus, and John were all good huntsmen; Edward II. reduced hunting to a science, and established rules for its practice; Henry IV. appointed a master of the game; Edward III. hunted with sixty couples of stag-hounds; Elizabeth was a famous huntswoman; and James I. preferred hunting to hawking or shooting. The Bishops and Abbots of the middle ages hunted with great state. Ladies also joined in the chase from the earliest times; and a lady's hunting-dress in the fifteenth century scarcely differed from the riding-habit of the present day.

Sir Walter Scott.

The Deer-Stalker's Return.

Letter E.

Elizabeth his wife, actuated by his undaunted spirit, applied to the House of Lords for his release; and, according to her relation, she was told, "they could do nothing; but that his releasement was committed to the Judges at the next assizes." The Judges were Sir Matthew Hale and Mr. Justice Twisden; and a remarkable contrast appeared between the well-known meekness of the one, and fury of the other. Elizabeth came before them, and, stating her husband's case, prayed for justice: "Judge Twisden," says John Bunyan, "snapt her up, and angrily told her that I was a convicted person, and could not be released unless I would promise to preach no more.Elizabeth: 'The Lords told me that releasement was committed to you, and you give me neither releasement nor relief. My husband is unlawfully in prison, and you are bound to discharge him.'Twisden: 'He has been lawfully convicted.'Elizabeth: 'It is false, for when they said "Do you confess the indictment?" he answered, "At the meetings where he preached, they had God's presence among them."'Twisden: 'Will your husband leave preaching? if he will do so, then send for him.'Elizabeth: 'My Lord, he dares not leave off preaching as long as he can speak. But, good my Lords, consider that we have four small children, one of them blind, and that they have nothing to live upon while their father is in prison, but the charity of Christian people.'Sir Matthew Hale: 'Alas! poor woman.'Twisden: 'Poverty is your cloak, for I hear your husband is better maintained by running up and down a-preaching than by following his calling?'Sir Matthew Hale: 'What is his calling?'Elizabeth: 'A tinker, please you my Lord; and because he is a tinker, and a poor man, therefore he is despised and cannot have justice.'Sir Matthew Hale: 'I am truly sorry we can do you no good. Sitting here we can only act as the law gives us warrant; and we have no power to reverse the sentence, although it may be erroneous. What your husband said was taken for a confession, and he stands convicted. There is, therefore, no course for you but to apply to the King for a pardon, or to sue out a writ of error; and, the indictment, or subsequent proceedings, being shown to be contrary to law, the sentence shall be reversed, and your husband shall be set at liberty. I am truly sorry for your pitiable case. I wish I could serve you, but I fear I can do you no good.'"

Little do we know what is for our permanent good. Had Bunyan then been discharged and allowed to enjoy liberty, he no doubt would have returned to his trade, filling up his intervals of leisure with field-preaching; his name would not have survived his own generation, and he could have done little for the religious improvement of mankind. The prison doors were shut upon him for twelve years. Being cut off from the external world, he communed with his own soul; and, inspired by Him who touched Isaiah's hallowed lips with fire, he composed the noblest of allegories, the merit of which was first discovered by the lowly, but which is now lauded by the most refined critics, and which has done more to awaken piety, and to enforce the precepts of Christian morality, than all the sermons that have been published by all the prelates of the Anglican Church.

Lord Campbell'sLives of the Judges.

This singular variety of the Fox was first made known to naturalists in 1820, after the return of De Laland from South Africa. It is an inhabitant of the mountains in the neighbourhood of the Cape of Good Hope, but it is so rare that little is known of its habits in a state of nature. The Engraving was taken from a specimen which has been lately placed in the Zoological Society's gardens in the Regent's Park. It is extremely quick of hearing, and there is something in the general expression of the head which suggests a resemblance to the long-eared bat. Its fur is very thick, and the brush is larger than that of our common European fox. The skin of the fox is in many species very valuable; that of another kind of fox at the Cape of Good Hope is so much in request among the natives as a covering for the cold season, that many of the Bechuanas are solely employed in hunting the animal down with dogs, or laying snares in the places to which it is known to resort.

The Long-Eared African Fox.

In common with all other foxes, those of Africa are great enemies to birds which lay their eggs upon the ground; and their movements are, in particular, closely watched by the ostrich during the laying season. When the fox has surmounted all obstacles in procuring eggs, he has to encounter the difficulty of getting at their contents; but even for this task his cunning finds an expedient, and it is that of pushing them forcibly along the ground until they come in contact with some substance hard enough to break them, when the contents are speedily disposed of.

The natives, from having observed the anxiety of the ostrich to keep this animal from robbing her nest, avail themselves of this solicitude to lure the bird to its destruction; for, seeing that it runs to the nest the instant a fox appears, they fasten a dog near it, and conceal themselves close by, and the ostrich, on approaching to drive away the supposed fox, is frequently shot by the real hunter.

The fur of the red fox of America is much valued as an article of trade, and about 8000 are annually imported into England from the fur countries, where the animal is very abundant, especially in the wooded parts.

Foxes of various colours are also common in the fur countries of North America, and a rare and valuable variety is the black or silver fox. Dr. Richardson states that seldom more than four or five of this variety are taken in a season at one post, though the hunters no sooner find out the haunts of one, than they use every art to catch it, because its fur fetches six times the price of any other fur produced in North America. This fox is sometimes found of a rich deep glossy black, the tip of the brush alone being white; in general, however, it is silvered over the end of each of the long hairs of the fur, producing a beautiful appearance.

The Arctic fox resembles greatly the European species, but is considerably smaller; and, owing to the great quantity of white woolly fur with which it is covered, is somewhat like a little shock dog. The brush is very large and full, affording an admirable covering for the nose and feet, to which it acts as a muff when the animal sleeps. The fur is in the greatest perfection during the months of winter, when the colour gradually becomes from an ashy grey to a full and pure white, and is extremely thick, covering even the soles of the feet. Captain Lyon has given very interesting accounts of the habits of this animal, and describes it as being cleanly and free from any unpleasant smell: it inhabits the most northern lands hitherto discovered.

Syrian Fox.

The Plain of Esdraelon, in Palestine, is often mentioned in sacred history, as the great battle-field of the Jewish and other nations, under the names of the Valley of Mejiddo and the Valley of Jizreel, and by Josephus as the Great Plain. The convenience of its extent and situation for military action and display has, from the earliest periods of history down to our own day, caused its surface at certain intervals to be moistened with the blood, and covered with the bodies of conflicting warriors of almost every nation under heaven. This extensive plain, exclusive of three great arms which stretch eastward towards the Valley of the Jordan, may be said to be in the form of an acute triangle, having the measure of 13 or 14 miles on the north, about 18 on the east, and above 20 on the south-west. Before the verdure of spring and early summer has been parched up by the heat and drought of the late summer and autumn, the view of the Great Plain is, from its fertility and beauty, very delightful. In June, yellow fields of grain, with green patches of millet and cotton, chequer the landscape like a carpet. The plain itself is almost without villages, but there are several on the slopes of the inclosing hills, especially on the side of Mount Carmel. On the borders of this plain Mount Tabor stands out alone in magnificent grandeur. Seen from the south-west its fine proportions present a semi-globular appearance; but from the north-west it more resembles a truncated cone. By an ancient path, which winds considerably, one may ride to the summit, where is a small oblong plain with the foundations of ancient buildings. The view from the summit is declared by Lord Nugent to be the most splendid he could recollect having ever seen from any natural height. The sides of the mountain are mostly covered with bushes and woods of oak trees, with occasionally pistachio trees, presenting a beautiful appearance, and affording a welcome and agreeable shade. There are various tracks up its sides, often crossing each other, and the ascent generally occupies about an hour. The crest of the mountain is table-land, 600 or 700 yards in height from north to south, and about half as much across, and a flat field of about an acre occurs at a level of some 20 or 25 feet lower than the eastern brow. There are remains of several small ruined tanks on the crest, which still catch the rain water dripping through the crevices of the rock, and preserve it cool and clear, it is said, throughout the year.

Mount Tabor.

The tops of this range of mountains are barren, but the slopes and valleys afford pasturage, and are capable of cultivation, from the numerous springs which are met with in all directions. Cultivation is, however, chiefly found on the seaward slopes; there many flourishing villages exist, and every inch of ground is turned to account by the industrious natives.

Fig Tree.

Here, amidst the crags of the rocks, are to be seen the remains of the renowned cedars with which Lebanon once abounded; but a much larger proportion of firs, sycamores, mulberry trees, fig trees, and vines now exist.

Sycamore.

Letter S.She, that most faithful lady, all this while,Forsaken, woful, solitary maid,Far from the people's throng, as in exile,In wilderness and wasteful deserts stray'dTo seek her knight; who, subtlely betray'dBy that false vision which th' enchanter wrought,Had her abandon'd. She, of nought afraid,Him through the woods and wide wastes daily sought,Yet wish'd for tidings of him—none unto her brought.One day, nigh weary of the irksome way,From her unhasty beast she did alight;And on the grass her dainty limbs did layIn secret shadow, far from all men's sight:From her fair head her fillet she undight,And laid her stole aside; her angel face,As the great eye that lights the earth, shone bright,And made a sunshine in that shady place,That never mortal eye beheld such heavenly grace.It fortun'd that, from out the thicket woodA ramping lion rushed suddenly,And hunting greedy after savage blood,The royal virgin helpless did espy;At whom, with gaping mouth full greedilyTo seize and to devour her tender corse,When he did run, he stopp'd ere he drew nigh,And loosing all his rage in quick remorse,As with the sight amazed, forgot his furious force.Then coming near, he kiss'd her weary feet,And lick'd her lily hand with fawning tongue,As he her wronged innocence did meet:Oh! how can beauty master the most strong,And simple truth subdue intent of wrong!His proud submission, and his yielded pride,Though dreading death, when she had marked long,She felt compassion in her heart to slide,And drizzling tears to gush that might not be denied.And with her tears she pour'd a sad complaint,That softly echoed from the neighbouring wood;While sad to see her sorrowful constraint,The kingly beast upon her gazing stood:With pity calm'd he lost all angry mood.At length, in close breast shutting up her pain,Arose the virgin born of heavenly brood,And on her snowy palfrey rode againTo seek and find her knight, if him she might attain.The lion would not leave her desolate,But with her went along, as a strong guardOf her chaste person, and a faithful mateOf her sad troubles and misfortunes hard:Still when she slept, he kept both watch and ward,And when she waked, he waited diligentWith humble service to her will prepared.From her fair eyes he took commandment,And ever by her looks conceived her intent.Spenser.

She, that most faithful lady, all this while,Forsaken, woful, solitary maid,Far from the people's throng, as in exile,In wilderness and wasteful deserts stray'dTo seek her knight; who, subtlely betray'dBy that false vision which th' enchanter wrought,Had her abandon'd. She, of nought afraid,Him through the woods and wide wastes daily sought,Yet wish'd for tidings of him—none unto her brought.One day, nigh weary of the irksome way,From her unhasty beast she did alight;And on the grass her dainty limbs did layIn secret shadow, far from all men's sight:From her fair head her fillet she undight,And laid her stole aside; her angel face,As the great eye that lights the earth, shone bright,And made a sunshine in that shady place,That never mortal eye beheld such heavenly grace.It fortun'd that, from out the thicket woodA ramping lion rushed suddenly,And hunting greedy after savage blood,The royal virgin helpless did espy;At whom, with gaping mouth full greedilyTo seize and to devour her tender corse,When he did run, he stopp'd ere he drew nigh,And loosing all his rage in quick remorse,As with the sight amazed, forgot his furious force.Then coming near, he kiss'd her weary feet,And lick'd her lily hand with fawning tongue,As he her wronged innocence did meet:Oh! how can beauty master the most strong,And simple truth subdue intent of wrong!His proud submission, and his yielded pride,Though dreading death, when she had marked long,She felt compassion in her heart to slide,And drizzling tears to gush that might not be denied.And with her tears she pour'd a sad complaint,That softly echoed from the neighbouring wood;While sad to see her sorrowful constraint,The kingly beast upon her gazing stood:With pity calm'd he lost all angry mood.At length, in close breast shutting up her pain,Arose the virgin born of heavenly brood,And on her snowy palfrey rode againTo seek and find her knight, if him she might attain.The lion would not leave her desolate,But with her went along, as a strong guardOf her chaste person, and a faithful mateOf her sad troubles and misfortunes hard:Still when she slept, he kept both watch and ward,And when she waked, he waited diligentWith humble service to her will prepared.From her fair eyes he took commandment,And ever by her looks conceived her intent.

She, that most faithful lady, all this while,

Forsaken, woful, solitary maid,

Far from the people's throng, as in exile,

In wilderness and wasteful deserts stray'd

To seek her knight; who, subtlely betray'd

By that false vision which th' enchanter wrought,

Had her abandon'd. She, of nought afraid,

Him through the woods and wide wastes daily sought,

Yet wish'd for tidings of him—none unto her brought.

One day, nigh weary of the irksome way,From her unhasty beast she did alight;And on the grass her dainty limbs did layIn secret shadow, far from all men's sight:From her fair head her fillet she undight,And laid her stole aside; her angel face,As the great eye that lights the earth, shone bright,And made a sunshine in that shady place,That never mortal eye beheld such heavenly grace.

One day, nigh weary of the irksome way,

From her unhasty beast she did alight;

And on the grass her dainty limbs did lay

In secret shadow, far from all men's sight:

From her fair head her fillet she undight,

And laid her stole aside; her angel face,

As the great eye that lights the earth, shone bright,

And made a sunshine in that shady place,

That never mortal eye beheld such heavenly grace.

It fortun'd that, from out the thicket woodA ramping lion rushed suddenly,And hunting greedy after savage blood,The royal virgin helpless did espy;At whom, with gaping mouth full greedilyTo seize and to devour her tender corse,When he did run, he stopp'd ere he drew nigh,And loosing all his rage in quick remorse,As with the sight amazed, forgot his furious force.

It fortun'd that, from out the thicket wood

A ramping lion rushed suddenly,

And hunting greedy after savage blood,

The royal virgin helpless did espy;

At whom, with gaping mouth full greedily

To seize and to devour her tender corse,

When he did run, he stopp'd ere he drew nigh,

And loosing all his rage in quick remorse,

As with the sight amazed, forgot his furious force.

Then coming near, he kiss'd her weary feet,And lick'd her lily hand with fawning tongue,As he her wronged innocence did meet:Oh! how can beauty master the most strong,And simple truth subdue intent of wrong!His proud submission, and his yielded pride,Though dreading death, when she had marked long,She felt compassion in her heart to slide,And drizzling tears to gush that might not be denied.

Then coming near, he kiss'd her weary feet,

And lick'd her lily hand with fawning tongue,

As he her wronged innocence did meet:

Oh! how can beauty master the most strong,

And simple truth subdue intent of wrong!

His proud submission, and his yielded pride,

Though dreading death, when she had marked long,

She felt compassion in her heart to slide,

And drizzling tears to gush that might not be denied.

And with her tears she pour'd a sad complaint,That softly echoed from the neighbouring wood;While sad to see her sorrowful constraint,The kingly beast upon her gazing stood:With pity calm'd he lost all angry mood.At length, in close breast shutting up her pain,Arose the virgin born of heavenly brood,And on her snowy palfrey rode againTo seek and find her knight, if him she might attain.

And with her tears she pour'd a sad complaint,

That softly echoed from the neighbouring wood;

While sad to see her sorrowful constraint,

The kingly beast upon her gazing stood:

With pity calm'd he lost all angry mood.

At length, in close breast shutting up her pain,

Arose the virgin born of heavenly brood,

And on her snowy palfrey rode again

To seek and find her knight, if him she might attain.

The lion would not leave her desolate,But with her went along, as a strong guardOf her chaste person, and a faithful mateOf her sad troubles and misfortunes hard:Still when she slept, he kept both watch and ward,And when she waked, he waited diligentWith humble service to her will prepared.From her fair eyes he took commandment,And ever by her looks conceived her intent.

The lion would not leave her desolate,

But with her went along, as a strong guard

Of her chaste person, and a faithful mate

Of her sad troubles and misfortunes hard:

Still when she slept, he kept both watch and ward,

And when she waked, he waited diligent

With humble service to her will prepared.

From her fair eyes he took commandment,

And ever by her looks conceived her intent.

Spenser.

Letter S.

Seven miles from the sea-port of Boston, in Lincolnshire, lies the rural town of Swineshead, once itself a port, the sea having flowed up to the market-place, where there was a harbour. The name of Swineshead is familiar to every reader of English history, from its having been the resting-place of King John, after he lost the whole of his baggage, and narrowly escaped with his life, when crossing the marshes from Lynn to Sleaford, the castle of which latter place was then in his possession. The King halted at the Abbey, close to the town of Swineshead, which place he left on horseback; but being taken ill, was moved in a litter to Sleaford, and thence to his castle at Newark, where he died on the following day, in the year 1216.

Apart from this traditional interest, Swineshead has other antiquarian and historical associations. The circular Danish encampment, sixty yards in diameter, surrounded by a double fosse, was, doubtless, a post of importance, when the Danes, or Northmen, carried their ravages through England in the time of Ethelred I., and the whole country passed permanently into the Danish hands about A.D. 877. The incessant inroads of the Danes, who made constant descents on various parts of the coast, burning the towns and villages, and laying waste the country in all directions, led to that stain upon the English character, the Danish massacre. The troops collected to oppose these marauders always lost courage and fled, and their leaders, not seldom, set them the example. In 1002, peace was purchased for a sum of £24,000 and a large supply of provisions. Meantime, the King and his councillors resolved to have recourse to a most atrocious expedient for their future security. It had been the practice of the English Kings, from the time of Athelstane, to have great numbers of Danes in their pay, as guards, or household troops; and these, it is said, they quartered on their subjects, one on each house. The household troops, like soldiers in general, paid great attention to their dress and appearance, and thus became very popular with the generality of people; but they also occasionally behaved with great insolence, and were also strongly suspected of holding secret intelligence with their piratical countrymen. It was therefore resolved to massacre the Hus-carles, as they were called, and their families, throughout England. Secret orders to this effect were sent to all parts, and on St. Brice's day, November 13th, 1002, the Danes were everywhere fallen on and slain. The ties of affinity (for many of them had married and settled in the country) were disregarded; even Gunhilda, sister to Sweyn, King of Denmark, though a Christian, was not spared, and with her last breath she declared that her death would bring the greatest evils upon England. The words of Gunhilda proved prophetic. Sweyn, burning for revenge and glad of a pretext for war, soon made his appearance on the south coast, and during four years he spread devastation through all parts of the country, until the King Ethelred agreed to give him £30,000 and provisions as before for peace, and the realm thus had rest for two years. But this short peace was but a prelude to further disturbances; and indeed for two centuries, dating from the reign of Egbert, England was destined to become a prey to these fierce and fearless invaders.

Danish Encampment at Swineshead, Lincolnshire.

The old Abbey of Swineshead was demolished in 1610, and the present structure, known as Swineshead Abbey, was built from the materials.

Letter B.Beautiful stream! By rock and dellThere's not an inch in all thy courseI have not track'd. I know thee well:I know where blossoms the yellow gorse;I know where waves the pale bluebell,And where the orchis and violets dwell.I know where the foxglove rears its head,And where the heather tufts are spread;I know where the meadow-sweets exhale,And the white valerians load the gale.I know the spot the bees love best,And where the linnet has built her nest.I know the bushes the grouse frequent,And the nooks where the shy deer browse the bent.I know each tree to thy fountain head—The lady birches, slim and fair;The Nameless Stream.The feathery larch, the rowans red,The brambles trailing their tangled hair;And each is link'd to my waking thoughtBy some remembrance fancy-fraught.The Nameless Stream.Yet, lovely stream, unknown to fame,Thou hast oozed, and flow'd, and leap'd, and run,Ever since Time its course begun,Without a record, without a name.I ask'd the shepherd on the hill—He knew thee but as a common rill;I ask'd the farmer's blue-eyed daughter—She knew thee but as a running water;I ask'd the boatman on the shore(He was never ask'd to tell before)—Thou wert a brook, and nothing more.Yet, stream, so dear to me alone,I prize and cherish thee none the lessThat thou flowest unseen, unpraised, unknown,In the unfrequented wilderness.Though none admire and lay to heartHow good and beautiful thou art,Thy flow'rets bloom, thy waters run,And the free birds chaunt thy benison.Beauty is beauty, though unseen;And those who love it all their days,Find meet reward in their soul serene,And the inner voice of prayer and praise.Mackay

Beautiful stream! By rock and dellThere's not an inch in all thy courseI have not track'd. I know thee well:I know where blossoms the yellow gorse;I know where waves the pale bluebell,And where the orchis and violets dwell.I know where the foxglove rears its head,And where the heather tufts are spread;I know where the meadow-sweets exhale,And the white valerians load the gale.I know the spot the bees love best,And where the linnet has built her nest.I know the bushes the grouse frequent,And the nooks where the shy deer browse the bent.I know each tree to thy fountain head—The lady birches, slim and fair;

Beautiful stream! By rock and dell

There's not an inch in all thy course

I have not track'd. I know thee well:

I know where blossoms the yellow gorse;

I know where waves the pale bluebell,

And where the orchis and violets dwell.

I know where the foxglove rears its head,

And where the heather tufts are spread;

I know where the meadow-sweets exhale,

And the white valerians load the gale.

I know the spot the bees love best,

And where the linnet has built her nest.

I know the bushes the grouse frequent,

And the nooks where the shy deer browse the bent.

I know each tree to thy fountain head—

The lady birches, slim and fair;

The Nameless Stream.

The feathery larch, the rowans red,The brambles trailing their tangled hair;And each is link'd to my waking thoughtBy some remembrance fancy-fraught.

The feathery larch, the rowans red,

The brambles trailing their tangled hair;

And each is link'd to my waking thought

By some remembrance fancy-fraught.

The Nameless Stream.

Yet, lovely stream, unknown to fame,Thou hast oozed, and flow'd, and leap'd, and run,Ever since Time its course begun,Without a record, without a name.I ask'd the shepherd on the hill—He knew thee but as a common rill;I ask'd the farmer's blue-eyed daughter—She knew thee but as a running water;I ask'd the boatman on the shore(He was never ask'd to tell before)—Thou wert a brook, and nothing more.Yet, stream, so dear to me alone,I prize and cherish thee none the lessThat thou flowest unseen, unpraised, unknown,In the unfrequented wilderness.Though none admire and lay to heartHow good and beautiful thou art,Thy flow'rets bloom, thy waters run,And the free birds chaunt thy benison.Beauty is beauty, though unseen;And those who love it all their days,Find meet reward in their soul serene,And the inner voice of prayer and praise.

Yet, lovely stream, unknown to fame,

Thou hast oozed, and flow'd, and leap'd, and run,

Ever since Time its course begun,

Without a record, without a name.

I ask'd the shepherd on the hill—

He knew thee but as a common rill;

I ask'd the farmer's blue-eyed daughter—

She knew thee but as a running water;

I ask'd the boatman on the shore

(He was never ask'd to tell before)—

Thou wert a brook, and nothing more.

Yet, stream, so dear to me alone,I prize and cherish thee none the lessThat thou flowest unseen, unpraised, unknown,In the unfrequented wilderness.Though none admire and lay to heartHow good and beautiful thou art,Thy flow'rets bloom, thy waters run,And the free birds chaunt thy benison.Beauty is beauty, though unseen;And those who love it all their days,Find meet reward in their soul serene,And the inner voice of prayer and praise.

Yet, stream, so dear to me alone,

I prize and cherish thee none the less

That thou flowest unseen, unpraised, unknown,

In the unfrequented wilderness.

Though none admire and lay to heart

How good and beautiful thou art,

Thy flow'rets bloom, thy waters run,

And the free birds chaunt thy benison.

Beauty is beauty, though unseen;

And those who love it all their days,

Find meet reward in their soul serene,

And the inner voice of prayer and praise.

Mackay

Letter H.

Having surveyed the various objects in Iona, we sailed for a spot no less interesting. Thousands have described it. Few, however, have seen it by torch or candle light, and in this respect we differ from most tourists. All description, however, of this far-famed wonder must be vain and fruitless. The shades of night were fast descending, and had settled on the still waves and the little group of islets, called the Treshnish Isles, when our vessel approached the celebrated Temple of the Sea. We had light enough to discern its symmetry and proportions; but the colour of the rock—a dark grey—and the minuter graces of the columns, were undistinguishable in the evening gloom. The great face of the rock is the most wonderful production of nature we ever beheld. It reminded us of the west front of York or Lincoln cathedral—a resemblance, perhaps, fanciful in all but the feelings they both excite—especially when the English minster is seen by moonlight. The highest point of Staffa at this view is about one hundred feet; in its centre is the great cave, called Fingal's Cave, stretching up into the interior of the rock a distance of more than 200 feet. After admiring in mute astonishment the columnar proportions of the rock, regular as if chiselled by the hand of art, the passengers entered a small boat, and sailed under the arch. The boatmen had been brought from Iona, and they instantly set themselves to light some lanterns, and form torches of old ropes and tar, with which they completely illuminated the ocean hall, into which we were ushered.

The complete stillness of the scene, except the low plashing of the waves; the fitful gleams of light thrown first on the walls and ceiling, as the men moved to and fro along the side of the stupendous cave; the appearance of the varied roof, where different stalactites or petrifactions are visible; the vastness and perfect art or semblance of art of the whole, altogether formed a scene the most sublime, grand, and impressive ever witnessed.

The Cathedral of Iona sank into insignificance before this great temple of nature, reared, as if in mockery of the temples of man, by the Almighty Power who laid the beams of his chambers on the waters, and who walketh upon the wings of the wind. Macculloch says that it is with the morning sun only that the great face of Staffa can be seen in perfection; as the general surface is undulating and uneven, large masses of light or shadow are thus produced. We can believe, also, that the interior of the cave, with its broken pillars and variety of tints, and with the green sea rolling over a dark red or violet-coloured rock, must be seen to more advantage in the full light of day. Yet we question whether we could have been more deeply sensible of the beauty and grandeur of the scene than we were under the unusual circumstances we have described. The boatmen sang a Gaelicjoramor boat-song in the cave, striking their oars very violently in time with the music, which resounded finely through the vault, and was echoed back by roof and pillar. One of them, also, fired a gun, with the view of producing a still stronger effect of the same kind. When we had fairly satisfied ourselves with contemplating the cave, we all entered the boat and sailed round by the Clamshell Cave (where the basaltic columns are bent like the ribs of a ship), and the Rock of the Bouchaille, or the herdsman, formed of small columns, as regular and as interesting as the larger productions. We all clambered to the top of the rock, which affords grazing for sheep and cattle, and is said to yield a rent of £20 per annum to the proprietor. Nothing but the wide surface of the ocean was visible from our mountain eminence, and after a few minutes' survey we descended, returned to the boat, and after regaining the steam-vessel, took our farewell look of Staffa, and steered on for Tobermory.

Highland Note-Book.

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