Behold her, single in the field,Yon solitary Highland Lass!Reaping and singing by herself;Stop here, or gently pass!Alone she cuts and binds the grain,And sings a melancholy strain;O listen! for the Vale profoundIs overflowing with the sound.No Nightingale did ever chauntMore welcome notes to weary bandsOf travellers in some shady hauntAmong Arabian sands:A voice so thrilling ne'er was heardIn spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,Breaking the silence of the seasAmong the farthest Hebrides.Will no one tell me what she sings?—Perhaps the plaintive numbers flowFor old, unhappy, far-off things,And battles long ago:Or is it some more humble lay,Familiar matter of to-day?Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,That has been, and may be again?Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sangAs if her song could have no ending;I saw her singing at her work,And o'er the sickle bending;—I listened, motionless and still;And, as I mounted up the hill,The music in my heart I boreLong after it was heard no more.
Behold her, single in the field,Yon solitary Highland Lass!Reaping and singing by herself;Stop here, or gently pass!Alone she cuts and binds the grain,And sings a melancholy strain;O listen! for the Vale profoundIs overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chauntMore welcome notes to weary bandsOf travellers in some shady hauntAmong Arabian sands:A voice so thrilling ne'er was heardIn spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,Breaking the silence of the seasAmong the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?—Perhaps the plaintive numbers flowFor old, unhappy, far-off things,And battles long ago:Or is it some more humble lay,Familiar matter of to-day?Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,That has been, and may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sangAs if her song could have no ending;I saw her singing at her work,And o'er the sickle bending;—I listened, motionless and still;And, as I mounted up the hill,The music in my heart I boreLong after it was heard no more.
Wordsworth
Every occurrence in Nature is preceded by other occurrences which are its causes, and succeeded by others which are its effects. The human mind is not satisfied with observing and studying any natural occurrence alone, but takes pleasure in connecting every natural fact with what has gone before it, and with what is to come after it. Thus, when we enter upon the study of rivers, our interest will be greatly increased by taking into account, not only their actual appearances but also their causes and effects.
Let us trace a river to its source. Beginning where it empties itself into the sea, and following it backwards, we find it from time to time joined by tributaries which swell its waters. The river,of course, becomes smaller as these tributaries are passed. It shrinks first to a brook, then to a stream; this again divides itself into a number of smaller streamlets, ending in mere threads of water. These constitute the source of the river, and are usually found among hills. Thus, the Severn has its source in the Welsh Mountains; the Thames in the Cotswold Hills; the Rhine and the Rhone in the Alps; the Missouri in the Rocky Mountains; and the Amazon in the Andes of Peru.
But it is quite plain, that we have not yet reached the real beginning of the rivers. Whence do the earliest streams derive their water? A brief residence among the mountains would prove to you that they are fed by rains. In dry weather you would find the streams feeble, sometimes indeed quite dried up. In wet weather you would see them foaming torrents. In general these streams lose themselves as little threads of water upon the hillsides; but sometimes you may trace a river to a definite spring. You may, however, very soon assure yourself that such springs are also fed by rain, which has percolated through the rocks or soil, and which, through some orifice that it has found or formed, comes to the light of day.
But we cannot end here. Whence comes the rain which forms the mountain streams? Observation enables you to answer the question. Rain does not come from a clear sky. It comes from clouds. But what are clouds? Is there nothing you are acquainted with, which they resemble? You discover at once a likeness between them and the condensed steam of a locomotive. At every puff of the engine, a cloud is projected into the air. Watch the cloud sharply: you notice that it first forms at a little distance from the top of the funnel. Give close attention, and you will sometimes see a perfectly clear space between the funnel and the cloud. Through that clear space the thing which makes the cloud must pass. What, then, is this thing which at one moment is transparent and invisible, and at the next moment visible as a dense opaque cloud?
It is thesteamorvapour of waterfrom the boiler. Within the boiler this steam is transparent and invisible; but to keep it in this invisible state a heat would be required as great as that within the boiler. When the vapour mingles with the cold air above the hot funnel, it ceases to be vapour. Every bit of steam shrinks, when chilled, to a much moreminute particle of water. The liquid particles thus produced form a kind ofwater-dustof exceeding fineness, which floats in the air, and is called acloud.
Watch the cloud-banner from the funnel of a running locomotive; you see it growing gradually less dense. It finally melts away altogether; and if you continue your observations, you will not fail to notice that the speed of its disappearance depends upon the character of the day. In humid weather the cloud hangs long and lazily in the air; in dry weather it is rapidly licked up. What has become of it? It has been reconverted into true invisible vapour.
Thedrierthe air, and thehotterthe air, the greater is the amount of cloud which can be thus dissolved in it. When the cloud first forms, its quantity is far greater than the air is able to maintain in an invisible state. But, as the cloud mixes gradually with a larger mass of air, it is more and more dissolved, and finally passes altogether from the condition of a finely-divided liquid into that of transparent vapour or gas.
Make the lid of a kettle air-tight, and permit the steam to issue from the spout; a cloud is formed in all respects similar to that issuingfrom the funnel of the locomotive. To produce the cloud, in the case of the locomotive and the kettle,heatis necessary. By heating the water we first convert it into steam, and then by chilling the steam we convert it into cloud. Is there any fire in Nature which produces the clouds of our atmosphere? There is: the fire of the sun.
When the sunbeams fall upon the earth, they heat it, and also the water which lies on its surface, whether it be in large bodies, such as seas or rivers, or in the form of moisture. The water being thus warmed, a part of it is given off in the form of aqueous vapour, just as invisible vapour passes off from a boiler when the water in it is heated by fire. This vapour mingles with the air in contact with the earth. The vapour-charged air, being heated by the warm earth, expands, becomes lighter, and rises. It expands also, as it rises, because the pressure of the air above it becomes less and less with the height it attains. But an expanding body always becomes colder as the result of its expansion. Thus the vapour-laden air is chilled by its expansion. It is also chilled by coming in contact with the colder, higher air. The consequence is that the invisible vapour which itcontains is chilled, and forms into tiny water-drops, like the steam from a kettle or the funnel of the locomotive. And so, as the air rises and becomes colder, the vapour gathers into visible masses, which we call clouds.
This ascending moist air might become chilled, too, by meeting with a current of cold, dry air, and then clouds would be formed; and should this chilling process continue in either case until the water-drops become heavier than the surrounding air, they would fall to the earth as raindrops. Rain is, therefore, but a further stage in the condensation of aqueous vapour caused by the chilling of the air.
Mountains also assist in the formation of clouds. When a wind laden with moisture strikes against a mountain, it is tilted and flows up its side. The air expands as it rises, the vapour is chilled and becomes visible in the form of clouds, and if sufficiently chilled, it comes down to the earth in the form of rain, hail, or snow.
Thus, by tracing a river backwards, from its end to its real beginning, we come at length to the sun; for it is the sun that produces aqueous vapour, from which, as we have seen, clouds are formed, and it is from clouds that water falls to the earth to become the sources of rivers.
There are, however, rivers which have sources somewhat different from those just mentioned. They do not begin by driblets on a hillside, nor can they be traced to a spring. Go, for example, to the mouth of the river Rhone, and trace it backwards. You come at length to the Lake of Geneva, from which the river rushes, and which you might be disposed to regard as the source of the Rhone. But go to the head of the lake, and you find that the Rhone there enters it; that the lake is, in fact, an expansion of the river. Follow this upwards; you find it joined by smaller rivers from the mountains right and left. Pass these, and push your journey higher still. You come at length to a huge mass of ice—the end of a glacier—which fills the Rhone valley, and from the bottom of the glacier the river rushes. In the glacier of the Rhone you thus find the source of the river Rhone.
But whence come the glaciers? Wherever lofty mountains, like the Alps, rise into the high parts of the atmosphere where the temperature is below the freezing-point, the vapour condensed from the air falls upon them, not as rain, but as snow. In such high mountainous regions, the heat of the summer melts the snow from the lower hills, but the higher parts remain covered,for the heat cannot melt all the snow which falls there in a year. When a considerable depth of snow has accumulated, the pressure upon the lower layers squeezes them into a firm mass, and after a time the snow begins to slide down the slope of the mountain. It passes downward from one slope to another, joined continually by other sliding masses from neighbouring slopes, until they all unite into one long tongue, which creeps slowly down some valley to a point where it melts. This tongue from the snow-fields is called a glacier.
Without solar fire, therefore, we could have no atmospheric vapour, without vapour no clouds, without clouds no snow, and without snow no glaciers. Curious then as the conclusion may be, the cold ice of the Alps has its origin in this heat of the sun.
Tyndall: "The Forms of Water."(Adapted)
For what are men better than sheep or goatsThat nourish a blind life within the brain,If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayerBoth for themselves and those who call them friend?
For what are men better than sheep or goatsThat nourish a blind life within the brain,If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayerBoth for themselves and those who call them friend?
Tennyson
The Chief in silence strode before,And reached that torrent's sounding shore,Which, daughter of three mighty lakes,From Vennachar in silver breaks,Sweeps through the plain, and ceaseless minesOn Bochastle the mouldering lines,Where Rome, the Empress of the world,Of yore her eagle wings unfurled.And here his course the Chieftain staid,Threw down his target and his plaid,And to the Lowland warrior said—"Bold Saxon! to his promise just,Vich Alpine has discharged his trust.This murderous Chief, this ruthless man,This head of a rebellious clan,Hath led thee safe, through watch and ward,Far past Clan-Alpine's outmost guard.Now, man to man, and steel to steel,A Chieftain's vengeance thou shalt feel.See here, all vantageless I stand,Armed, like thyself, with single brand:For this is Coilantogle ford,And thou must keep thee with thy sword."The Saxon paused:—"I ne'er delayed,When foeman bade me draw my blade;Nay, more, brave Chief, I vowed thy death:Yet sure thy fair and generous faith,And my deep debt for life preserved,A better meed have well deserved:Can nought but blood our feud atone?Are there no means?"—"No, Stranger, none;And hear,—to fire thy flagging zeal,—The Saxon cause rests on thy steel;For thus spoke Fate, by prophet bredBetween the living and the dead:'Who spills the foremost foeman's life,His party conquers in the strife.'"—"Then, by my word," the Saxon said,"The riddle is already read.Seek yonder brake beneath the cliff,—There lies Red Murdoch, stark and stiff.Thus Fate has solved her prophecy,Then yield to Fate, and not to me.To James, at Stirling, let us go,When, if thou wilt be still his foe,Or if the King shall not agreeTo grant thee grace and favour free,I plight mine honour, oath, and word,That, to thy native strengths restored,With each advantage shalt thou stand,That aids thee now to guard thy land."Dark lightning flashed from Roderick's eye—"Soars thy presumption, then, so high,Because a wretched kern ye slew,Homage to name to Roderick Dhu?He yields not, he, to man nor Fate!Thou add'st but fuel to my hate:—My clansman's blood demands revenge.Not yet prepared?—By heaven, I changeMy thought, and hold thy valour lightAs that of some vain carpet knight,Who ill deserved my courteous care,And whose best boast is but to wearA braid of his fair lady's hair."—"I thank thee, Roderick, for the word!It nerves my heart, it steels my sword;For I have sworn this braid to stainIn the best blood that warms thy vein.Now, truce, farewell! and, ruth, begone!—Yet think not that by thee alone,Proud Chief! can courtesy be shown;Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn,Start at my whistle clansmen stern,Of this small horn one feeble blastWould fearful odds against thee cast.But fear not—doubt not—which thou wilt—We try this quarrel hilt to hilt."—Then each at once his falchion drew,Each on the ground his scabbard threw,Each looked to sun, and stream, and plain,As what they ne'er might see again;Then foot, and point, and eye opposed,In dubious strife they darkly closed.Ill fared it then with Roderick Dhu,That on the field his targe he threw,Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hideHad death so often dashed aside;For, trained abroad his arms to wield,Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield.He practised every pass and ward,To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard;While less expert, though stronger far,The Gael maintained unequal war.Three times in closing strife they stood,And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood;No stinted draught, no scanty tide,The gushing flood the tartans dyed.Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain,And showered his blows like wintry rain;And, as firm rock, or castle-roof,Against the winter shower is proof,The foe, invulnerable still,Foiled his wild rage by steady skill;Till, at advantage ta'en, his brandForced Roderick's weapon from his hand,And backward borne upon the lea,Brought the proud Chieftain to his knee."Now, yield thee, or by Him who madeThe world, thy heart's blood dyes my blade!"—"Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy!Let recreant yield, who fears to die."—Like adder darting from his coil,Like wolf that dashes through the toil,Like mountain-cat who guards her young,Full at Fitz-James's throat he sprung;Received, but recked not of a wound,And locked his arms his foeman round.—Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own!No maiden's hand is round thee thrown!That desperate grasp thy frame might feel,Through bars of brass and triple steel!—They tug, they strain! down, down they go,The Gael above, Fitz-James below.The Chieftain's gripe his throat compressed,His knee was planted on his breast;His clotted locks he backward threw,Across his brow his hand he drew,From blood and mist to clear his sight,Then gleamed aloft his dagger bright!——But hate and fury ill suppliedThe stream of life's exhausted tide,And all too late the advantage came,To turn the odds of deadly game;For, while the dagger gleamed on high,Reeled soul and sense, reeled brain and eye,Down came the blow! but in the heathThe erring blade found bloodless sheath.The struggling foe may now unclaspThe fainting Chief's relaxing grasp;Unwounded from the dreadful close,But breathless all, Fitz-James arose.
The Chief in silence strode before,And reached that torrent's sounding shore,Which, daughter of three mighty lakes,From Vennachar in silver breaks,Sweeps through the plain, and ceaseless minesOn Bochastle the mouldering lines,Where Rome, the Empress of the world,Of yore her eagle wings unfurled.And here his course the Chieftain staid,Threw down his target and his plaid,And to the Lowland warrior said—"Bold Saxon! to his promise just,Vich Alpine has discharged his trust.This murderous Chief, this ruthless man,This head of a rebellious clan,Hath led thee safe, through watch and ward,Far past Clan-Alpine's outmost guard.Now, man to man, and steel to steel,A Chieftain's vengeance thou shalt feel.See here, all vantageless I stand,Armed, like thyself, with single brand:For this is Coilantogle ford,And thou must keep thee with thy sword."
The Saxon paused:—"I ne'er delayed,When foeman bade me draw my blade;Nay, more, brave Chief, I vowed thy death:Yet sure thy fair and generous faith,And my deep debt for life preserved,A better meed have well deserved:Can nought but blood our feud atone?Are there no means?"—"No, Stranger, none;And hear,—to fire thy flagging zeal,—The Saxon cause rests on thy steel;For thus spoke Fate, by prophet bredBetween the living and the dead:'Who spills the foremost foeman's life,His party conquers in the strife.'"—"Then, by my word," the Saxon said,"The riddle is already read.Seek yonder brake beneath the cliff,—There lies Red Murdoch, stark and stiff.Thus Fate has solved her prophecy,Then yield to Fate, and not to me.To James, at Stirling, let us go,When, if thou wilt be still his foe,Or if the King shall not agreeTo grant thee grace and favour free,I plight mine honour, oath, and word,That, to thy native strengths restored,With each advantage shalt thou stand,That aids thee now to guard thy land."
Dark lightning flashed from Roderick's eye—"Soars thy presumption, then, so high,Because a wretched kern ye slew,Homage to name to Roderick Dhu?He yields not, he, to man nor Fate!Thou add'st but fuel to my hate:—My clansman's blood demands revenge.Not yet prepared?—By heaven, I changeMy thought, and hold thy valour lightAs that of some vain carpet knight,Who ill deserved my courteous care,And whose best boast is but to wearA braid of his fair lady's hair."—"I thank thee, Roderick, for the word!It nerves my heart, it steels my sword;For I have sworn this braid to stainIn the best blood that warms thy vein.Now, truce, farewell! and, ruth, begone!—Yet think not that by thee alone,Proud Chief! can courtesy be shown;Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn,Start at my whistle clansmen stern,Of this small horn one feeble blastWould fearful odds against thee cast.But fear not—doubt not—which thou wilt—We try this quarrel hilt to hilt."—Then each at once his falchion drew,Each on the ground his scabbard threw,Each looked to sun, and stream, and plain,As what they ne'er might see again;Then foot, and point, and eye opposed,In dubious strife they darkly closed.
Ill fared it then with Roderick Dhu,That on the field his targe he threw,Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hideHad death so often dashed aside;For, trained abroad his arms to wield,Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield.He practised every pass and ward,To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard;While less expert, though stronger far,The Gael maintained unequal war.Three times in closing strife they stood,And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood;No stinted draught, no scanty tide,The gushing flood the tartans dyed.Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain,And showered his blows like wintry rain;And, as firm rock, or castle-roof,Against the winter shower is proof,The foe, invulnerable still,Foiled his wild rage by steady skill;Till, at advantage ta'en, his brandForced Roderick's weapon from his hand,And backward borne upon the lea,Brought the proud Chieftain to his knee.
"Now, yield thee, or by Him who madeThe world, thy heart's blood dyes my blade!"—"Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy!Let recreant yield, who fears to die."—Like adder darting from his coil,Like wolf that dashes through the toil,Like mountain-cat who guards her young,Full at Fitz-James's throat he sprung;Received, but recked not of a wound,And locked his arms his foeman round.—Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own!No maiden's hand is round thee thrown!That desperate grasp thy frame might feel,Through bars of brass and triple steel!—They tug, they strain! down, down they go,The Gael above, Fitz-James below.The Chieftain's gripe his throat compressed,His knee was planted on his breast;His clotted locks he backward threw,Across his brow his hand he drew,From blood and mist to clear his sight,Then gleamed aloft his dagger bright!——But hate and fury ill suppliedThe stream of life's exhausted tide,And all too late the advantage came,To turn the odds of deadly game;For, while the dagger gleamed on high,Reeled soul and sense, reeled brain and eye,Down came the blow! but in the heathThe erring blade found bloodless sheath.The struggling foe may now unclaspThe fainting Chief's relaxing grasp;Unwounded from the dreadful close,But breathless all, Fitz-James arose.
Scott: "The Lady of the Lake."
("Nicholas Nickleby" deals with the gross mismanagement of schools in Yorkshire, England. Squeers, a vulgar, crafty despot, is head of Dotheboys Hall. Nicholas is an usher or undermaster in the school; Smike, a little, friendless, starved pupil who has run away to escape from drudgery and harshness.)
"He is off," said Mrs. Squeers. "The cow-house and stable are locked up, so he can't be there; and he's not down-stairs anywhere, for the girl has looked. He must have gone York way, and by a public road, too."
"Why must he?" inquired Squeers.
"Stupid!" said Mrs. Squeers, angrily. "He hadn't any money, had he?"
"Never had a penny of his own in his whole life, that I know of," replied Squeers.
"To be sure," rejoined Mrs. Squeers, "and he didn't take anything to eat with him; that I'll answer for. Ha! ha! ha!"
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Squeers.
"Then, of course," said Mrs. S., "he must beg his way, and he could do that nowhere but on the public road."
"That's true," exclaimed Squeers, clapping his hands.
"True! yes; but you would never have thought of it for all that, if I hadn't said so," replied his wife. "Now, if you take the chaise and go one road, and I borrow Swallow's chaise and go the other, what with keeping our eyes open, and asking questions, one or other of us is pretty sure to lay hold of him."
The worthy lady's plan was adopted and put in execution without a moment's delay. After a hasty breakfast, and the prosecution of some inquiries in the village, the result of which seemed to show that he was on the right track, Squeers started forth in the pony-chaise, intent upon discovery and vengeance. Shortly afterwards, Mrs. Squeers, arrayed in the white topcoat and tied up in various shawls andhandkerchiefs, issued forth in another chaise in another direction, taking with her a good-sized bludgeon, several odd pieces of strong cord, and a stout labouring man; all provided and carried upon the expedition with the sole object of assisting in the capture, and (once caught) insuring the safe custody of the unfortunate Smike.
Nicholas remained behind, in a tumult of feeling, sensible that whatever might be the upshot of the boy's flight, nothing but painful and deplorable consequences were likely to ensue from it. Death, from want and exposure to the weather, was the best that could be expected from the protracted wanderings of so poor and helpless a creature, alone and unfriended, through a country of which he was wholly ignorant. There was little, perhaps, to choose between this fate and a return to the tender mercies of the Yorkshire school: but the unhappy being had established a hold upon his sympathy and compassion, which made his heart ache at the prospect of the suffering he was destined to undergo. He lingered on in restless anxiety, picturing a thousand possibilities, until the evening of the next day when Squeers returned alone and unsuccessful.
"No news of the scamp!" said the schoolmaster, who had evidently been stretching his legs, on the old principle, not a few times during the journey. "I'll have consolation for this out of somebody, Nickleby, if Mrs. Squeers don't hunt him down. So I give you fair warning."
"It is not in my power to console you, sir," said Nicholas. "It is nothing to me."
"Isn't it?" said Squeers, in a threatening manner. "We shall see!"
"We shall," rejoined Nicholas.
"Here's the pony run right off his legs, and me obliged to come home with a hack cob, that'll cost fifteen shillings besides other expenses," said Squeers; "who's to pay for that, do you hear?"
Nicholas shrugged his shoulders and remained silent.
"I'll have it out of somebody, I tell you," said Squeers, his usual harsh, crafty manner changed to open bullying. "None of your whining vapourings here, Mr. Puppy: but be off to your kennel, for it's past your bed-time! Come, get out!"
Nicholas bit his lip and knit his hands involuntarily, for his finger ends tingled to avenge the insult; but remembering that the man wasdrunk, and that it could come to little but a noisy brawl, he contented himself with darting a contemptuous look at the tyrant and walked, as majestically as he could, upstairs, and sternly resolved that the outstanding account between himself and Mr. Squeers should be settled rather more speedily than the latter anticipated.
Another day came, and Nicholas was scarcely awake when he heard the wheels of a chaise approaching the house. It stopped. The voice of Mrs. Squeers was heard, and in exultation, ordering a glass of spirits for somebody, which was in itself a sufficient sign that something extraordinary had happened. Nicholas hardly dared to look out of the window; but he did so, and the very first object that met his eyes was the wretched Smike; so bedabbled with mud and rain, so haggard and worn, and wild, that, but for his garments being such as no scarecrow was ever seen to wear, he might have been doubtful, even then, of his identity.
"Lift him out," said Squeers, after he had literally feasted his eyes in silence upon the culprit. "Bring him in; bring him in!"
"Take care," cried Mrs. Squeers, as her husband proffered his assistance. "We tied his legs under the apron and made 'em fast to thechaise, to prevent him giving us the slip again."
With hands trembling with delight, Squeers unloosed the cord; and Smike, to all appearances more dead than alive, was brought into the house and securely locked up in a cellar, until such time as Mr. Squeers should deem it expedient to operate upon him, in the presence of the assembled school.
The news that Smike had been caught and brought back in triumph ran like wild fire through the hungry community, and expectation was on tiptoe all morning. On tiptoe it was destined to remain, however, until afternoon; when Squeers, having refreshed himself with his dinner and further strengthened himself by an extra libation or so, made his appearance (accompanied by his amiable partner) with a countenance of portentous import, and a fearful instrument of flagellation, strong, supple, wax-ended, and new—in short, purchased that morning expressly for the occasion.
"Is every boy here?" asked Squeers, in a tremendous voice.
Every boy was there, but every boy was afraid to speak; so Squeers glared along the lines to assure himself; and every eye dropped, and every head cowered down, as he did so.
"Each boy keep his place," said Squeers, administering his favourite blow to the desk and regarding with gloomy satisfaction the universal start it never failed to occasion.
"Nickleby! to your desk, sir."
It was remarked by more than one small observer that there was a very curious and unusual expression in the usher's face; but he took his seat without opening his lips in reply. Squeers, casting a triumphant glance at his assistant and a look of most comprehensive despotism on the boys, left the room, and shortly afterward returned, dragging Smike by the collar—or rather by that fragment of his jacket which was nearest to the place where his collar would have been, had he boasted such a decoration.
In any other place, the appearance of the wretched, jaded, spiritless object would have occasioned a murmur of compassion and remonstrance. It had some effect even there; for the lookers-on moved uneasily in their seats; and a few of the boldest ventured to steal looks at each other, expressive of indignation and pity.
They were lost on Squeers, however, whose gaze was fastened on the luckless Smike, as he inquired, according to custom in such cases,whether he had anything to say for himself.
"Nothing, I suppose?" said Squeers, with a diabolical grin.
Smike glanced round, and his eyes rested for an instant on Nicholas, as if he had expected him to intercede; but his look was riveted on his desk.
"Have you anything to say?" demanded Squeers again, giving his right arm two or three flourishes to try its power and suppleness.
"Stand a little out of the way, Mrs. Squeers, my dear; I've hardly got enough room."
"Spare me, sir!" cried Smike.
"Oh! that's all, is it?" said Squeers. "Yes, I'll flog you within an inch of your life, and spare you that."
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Mrs. Squeers, "that's a good un!"
"I was driven to it," said Smike, faintly; and casting another imploring look about him.
"Driven to it, were you?" said Squeers. "Oh! it wasn't your fault; it was mine, I suppose—eh?"
"A nasty, ungrateful, pig-headed, brutish, obstinate, sneaking dog," exclaimed Mrs. Squeers, taking Smike's head under her arm and administering a cuff at every epithet; "what does he mean by that?"
"Stand aside, my dear," replied Squeers. "We'll try and find out."
Mrs. Squeers being out of breath with her exertions, complied. Squeers caught the boy firmly in his grip; one desperate cut had fallen on his body—he was wincing from the lash and uttering a scream of pain—it was raised again, and again about to fall—when Nicholas Nickleby, suddenly starting up, cried "Stop!" in a voice that made the rafters ring.
"Who cried stop?" asked Squeers, turning savagely round.
"I," said Nicholas, stepping forward. "This must not go on."
"Must not go on!" cried Squeers, almost in a shriek.
"No!" thundered Nicholas.
Aghast and stupefied at the boldness of the interference, Squeers released his hold of Smike, and, falling back a pace, gazed upon Nicholas with looks that were positively frightful.
"I say must not," repeated Nicholas, nothing daunted; "shall not, I will prevent it."
Squeers continued to gaze upon him with his eyes starting out of his head; but astonishment had actually for the moment bereft him of speech.
"You have disregarded all my quiet interference in this miserable lad's behalf," said Nicholas; "you have returned no answer to the letter in which I begged forgiveness for him and offered to be responsible that he would remain quietly here. Don't blame me for this public interference. You have brought it upon yourself; not I."
"Sit down, beggar!" screamed Squeers, almost beside himself with rage, and seizing Smike as he spoke.
"Wretch," rejoined Nicholas, fiercely, "touch him at your peril! I will not stand by and see it done. My blood is up, and I have the strength of ten such men as you. Look to yourself, for by Heaven I will not spare you, if you drive me on!"
"Stand back!" cried Squeers, brandishing his weapon.
"I have a long series of insults to avenge," said Nicholas, flushed with passion; "and my indignation is aggravated by the dastardly cruelties practised on helpless infancy in this foul den. Have a care; for if you do raise the devil within me, the consequences shall fall heavily upon your own head!"
He had scarcely spoken, when Squeers in aviolent outbreak of wrath, and with a cry like the howl of a wild beast, spat upon him and struck him a blow across the face with his instrument of torture, which raised a bar of livid flesh as it was inflicted. Smarting with the agony of the blow, and concentrating into that one moment all his feelings of rage, scorn, and indignation, Nicholas sprang upon him, wrested the weapon from his hand, and pinning him by the throat beat the ruffian till he roared for mercy.
The boys—with the exception of Master Squeers, who, coming to his father's assistance, harassed the enemy in the rear—moved not hand or foot; but Mrs. Squeers, with many shrieks for aid, hung on to the tail of her partner's coat and endeavoured to drag him from his infuriated adversary; while Miss Squeers, who had been peeping through the keyhole in the expectation of a very different scene, darted in at the very beginning of the attack, and after launching a shower of inkstands at the usher's head, beat Nicholas to her heart's content; animating herself, at every blow, with the recollection of his having refused her proffered love, and thus imparting additional strength to an arm which (as she took after her mother in this respect) was, at no time, of the weakest.
Nicholas, in the full strength of his violence, felt the blows no more than if they had been dealt with feathers; but, becoming tired of the noise and uproar, and feeling that his arm grew weaker besides, he threw all his remaining strength into half a dozen finishing cuts, and flung Squeers from him, with all the force he could muster. The violence of his fall precipitated Mrs. Squeers completely over an adjacent form; Squeers, striking his head against it in his descent, lay at his full length on the ground, stunned and motionless.
Having brought affairs to this happy termination, and ascertained, to his thorough satisfaction, that Squeers was only stunned, and not dead (upon which point he had some unpleasant doubts at first), Nicholas left his family to restore him, and retired to consider what course he had better adopt. He looked anxiously round for Smike, as he left the room, but he was nowhere to be seen.
After a brief consideration, he packed up a few clothes in a small valise, and, finding that nobody offered to oppose his progress, marched boldly out by the front door, and, shortly afterward, struck into the road which led to the Greta Bridge.
Dickens: "Nicholas Nickleby."
Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting,The river sang below;The dim Sierras, far beyond, upliftingTheir minarets of snow.The roaring camp-fire, with rude humour, paintedThe ruddy tints of healthOn haggard face and form that drooped and faintedIn the fierce race for wealth;Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasureA hoarded volume drew,And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisureTo hear the tale anew.And then, while round them shadows gathered faster,And as the firelight fell,He read aloud the book wherein the MasterHad writ of "Little Nell."Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy,—for the readerWas youngest of them all,—But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedarA silence seemed to fall;The fir trees, gathering closer in the shadows,Listened in every spray,While the whole camp, with "Nell" on English meadows,Wandered and lost their way.And so in mountain solitudes—o'ertakenAs by some spell divine—Their cares dropped from them like the needles shakenFrom out the gusty pine.Lost is that camp and wasted all its fire:And he who wrought that spell?—Ah! towering pine and stately Kentish spire,Ye have one tale to tell!Lost is that camp, but let its fragrant storyBlend with the breath that thrillsWith hopvines' incense all the pensive gloryThat fills the Kentish hills.And on that grave where English oak, and holly,And laurel wreaths entwine,Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,—This spray of Western pine!
Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting,The river sang below;The dim Sierras, far beyond, upliftingTheir minarets of snow.
The roaring camp-fire, with rude humour, paintedThe ruddy tints of healthOn haggard face and form that drooped and faintedIn the fierce race for wealth;
Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasureA hoarded volume drew,And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisureTo hear the tale anew.
And then, while round them shadows gathered faster,And as the firelight fell,He read aloud the book wherein the MasterHad writ of "Little Nell."
Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy,—for the readerWas youngest of them all,—But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedarA silence seemed to fall;
The fir trees, gathering closer in the shadows,Listened in every spray,While the whole camp, with "Nell" on English meadows,Wandered and lost their way.
And so in mountain solitudes—o'ertakenAs by some spell divine—Their cares dropped from them like the needles shakenFrom out the gusty pine.
Lost is that camp and wasted all its fire:And he who wrought that spell?—Ah! towering pine and stately Kentish spire,Ye have one tale to tell!
Lost is that camp, but let its fragrant storyBlend with the breath that thrillsWith hopvines' incense all the pensive gloryThat fills the Kentish hills.
And on that grave where English oak, and holly,And laurel wreaths entwine,Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,—This spray of Western pine!
Bret Harte
Dost thou look back on what hath been,As some divinely gifted man,Whose life in low estate beganAnd on a simple village green;Who breaks his birth's invidious bar,And grasps the skirts of happy chance,And breasts the blows of circumstance,And grapples with his evil star;Who makes by force his merit known,And lives to clutch the golden keys,To mould a mighty state's decrees,And shape the whisper of the throne;And moving up from high to higher,Becomes on Fortune's crowning slopeThe pillar of a people's hope,The centre of a world's desire;Yet feels, as in a pensive dream,When all his active powers are still,A distant dearness in the hill,A secret sweetness in the stream,The limit of his narrower fate,While yet beside its vocal springsHe played at counsellors and kings,With one that was his earliest mate;Who ploughs with pain his native lea,And reaps the labour of his hands,Or in the furrow musing stands;"Does my old friend remember me?"
Dost thou look back on what hath been,As some divinely gifted man,Whose life in low estate beganAnd on a simple village green;
Who breaks his birth's invidious bar,And grasps the skirts of happy chance,And breasts the blows of circumstance,And grapples with his evil star;
Who makes by force his merit known,And lives to clutch the golden keys,To mould a mighty state's decrees,And shape the whisper of the throne;
And moving up from high to higher,Becomes on Fortune's crowning slopeThe pillar of a people's hope,The centre of a world's desire;
Yet feels, as in a pensive dream,When all his active powers are still,A distant dearness in the hill,A secret sweetness in the stream,
The limit of his narrower fate,While yet beside its vocal springsHe played at counsellors and kings,With one that was his earliest mate;
Who ploughs with pain his native lea,And reaps the labour of his hands,Or in the furrow musing stands;"Does my old friend remember me?"
Tennyson: "In Memoriam, LXIV."
And so both hosts dressed them together. And king Arthur took his horse, and said, Alas this unhappy day, and so rode to his party: and Sir Mordred in like wise. And never was there seen a more dolefuller battle in any Christian land. For there was but rushing and riding, foining and striking, and many a grim word was there spoken either to other, and many a deadly stroke. But ever king Arthur rode throughoutthe battle of Sir Mordred many times, and did full nobly as a noble king should; and at all times he fainted never. And Sir Mordred that day put him in great peril. And thus they fought all the long day, and never stinted, till the noble knights were laid to the cold ground, and ever they fought still, till it was near night, and by that time was there an hundred thousand laid dead upon the down.
Then was Arthur wroth out of measure, when he saw his people so slain from him. Then the king looked about him, and then was he ware of all his host, and of all his good knights, were left no more alive but two knights, that was Sir Lucan de Butlere, and his brother Sir Bedivere: and they full were sore wounded. Jesu mercy, said the king, where are all my noble knights becomen. Alas that ever I should see this doleful day. For now, said Arthur, I am come to mine end. But would to God that I wist where were that traitor Sir Mordred, that hath caused all this mischief. Then was king Arthur ware where Sir Mordred leaned upon his sword among a great heap of dead men. Now give me my spear, said Arthur unto Sir Lucan, for yonder I have espied the traitor that all this woe hath wrought.
Then the king gat his spear in both his hands, and ran toward Sir Mordred, crying, Traitor, now is thy death day come. And when Sir Mordred heard Sir Arthur, he ran until him with his sword drawn in his hand. And then king Arthur smote Sir Mordred under the shield, with a foin of his spear throughout the body more than a fathom. And when Sir Mordred felt that he had his death's wound, he thrust himself, with the might that he had, up to the bur of king Arthur's spear. And right so he smote Arthur with his sword holden in both his hands, on the side of the head, that the sword pierced the helmet and the brain-pan, and therewithal Sir Mordred fell stark dead to the earth. And the noble Arthur fell in a swoon to the earth, and there he swooned oft-times. And Sir Lucan de Butlere and Sir Bedivere oft-times heaved him up, and so weakly they led him betwixt them both to a little chapel not far from the sea side.
Then Sir Lucan took up the king the one part, and Sir Bedivere the other part, and in the lifting, the king swooned, and Sir Lucan fell in a swoon with the lift and therewith the noble knight's heart burst. And when kingArthur came to himself again, he beheld Sir Lucan how he lay foaming at the mouth. Alas, said the king, this is unto me a full heavy sight to see this noble duke so die for my sake, for he would have holpen me that had more need of help than I. Alas, he would not complain him, his heart was so set to help me. Now Jesu have mercy upon his soul. Then Sir Bedivere wept for the death of his brother. Leave this mourning and weeping, said the king, for all this will not avail me: for, wit thou well, and I might live myself the death of Sir Lucan would grieve me evermore; but my time hieth fast, said the king.
Therefore, said Arthur, take thou Excalibur, my good sword, and go with it to yonder water side, and when thou comest there, I charge thee throw my sword in that water, and come again, and tell me what thou there seest. My lord, said Bedivere, your commandment shall be done, and lightly bring you word again. So Sir Bedivere departed, and by the way he beheld that noble sword, that the pommel and haft were all of precious stones, and then he said to himself, If I throw this rich sword in the water, thereof shall never come good, but harm and loss. And then SirBedivere hid Excalibur under a tree. And as soon as he might he came again unto the king, and said he had been at the water, and had thrown the sword into the water. What sawest thou there? said the king. Sir, he said, I saw nothing but waves and winds. That is untruly said of thee, said the king; therefore go thou lightly again, and do my command as thou art to me lief and dear, spare not, but throw it in.
Then Sir Bedivere returned again, and took the sword in his hand; and then him thought sin and shame to throw away that noble sword; and so eft he hid the sword, and returned again, and told to the king that he had been at the water, and done his commandment. What sawest thou there? said the king. Sir, he said, I saw nothing but the waters wap and the waves wan. Ah traitor, untrue, said king Arthur, now hast thou betrayed me twice. Who would have wend that thou that hast been to me so lief and dear, and thou art named a noble knight, and would betray me for the riches of the sword. But now go again lightly, for thy long tarrying putteth me in great jeopardy of my life, for I have taken cold. And unless if thou do now as I bid thee, if ever I may see thee,I shall slay thee with mine own hands, for thou wouldest for my rich sword see me dead.
Then Sir Bedivere departed, and went to the sword, and lightly took it up, and went to the water side, and there he bound the girdle about the hilts, and then he threw the sword as far into the water as he might, and there came an arm and an hand above the water, and met it, and caught it, and so shook it thrice and brandished, and then vanished away the hand with the sword in the water. So Sir Bedivere came again to the king, and told him what he saw. Alas, said the king, help me hence, for I dread me I have tarried over long.
Then Sir Bedivere took the king upon his back, and so went with him to that water side. And when they were at the water side, even fast by the bank hoved a little barge, with many fair ladies in it, and among them all was a queen, and all they had black hoods, and all they wept and shrieked when they saw king Arthur. Now put me into the barge, said the king: and so he did softly. And there received him three queens with great mourning, and so they set him down, and in one of their laps king Arthur laid his head, and then that queen said, Ah, dear brother, why have ye tarried so long fromme? Alas, this wound on your head hath caught over much cold. And so then they rowed from the land; and Sir Bedivere beheld all those ladies go from him.
Then Sir Bedivere cried, Ah, my lord Arthur, what shall become of me now ye go from me, and leave me here alone among mine enemies. Comfort thyself, said the king, and do as well as thou mayest, for in me is no trust for to trust in. For I will into the vale of Avilion, to heal me of my grievous wound. And if thou hear never more of me, pray for my soul. But ever the queens and the ladies wept and shrieked, that it was pity to hear. And as soon as Sir Bedivere had lost the sight of the barge, he wept and wailed, and so took the forest.
Sir Thomas Malory
Read: Tennyson's Morte D'Arthur.