The quality of mercy is not strained;It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heavenUpon the place beneath: it is twice blessed;It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes:'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomesThe thronèd monarch better than his crown;His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,—The attribute to awe and majesty,Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings,—But mercy is above this sceptred sway;It is enthronèd in the hearts of kings,It is an attribute to God himself;And earthly power doth then shew likest God'sWhen mercy seasons justice.
The quality of mercy is not strained;It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heavenUpon the place beneath: it is twice blessed;It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes:'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomesThe thronèd monarch better than his crown;His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,—The attribute to awe and majesty,Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings,—But mercy is above this sceptred sway;It is enthronèd in the hearts of kings,It is an attribute to God himself;And earthly power doth then shew likest God'sWhen mercy seasons justice.
Shakespeare
The ragged daisy starring all the fields,The buttercup abrim with pallid gold,The thistle and burr-flowers hedged with prickly shields,All common weeds the draggled pastures hold,With shrivelled pods and leaves, are kin to me,Like-heirs of earth and her maturity.They speak a silent speech that is their own,These wise and gentle teachers of the grass;And when their brief and common days are flown,A certain beauty from the year doth pass:—A beauty of whose light no eye can tell,Save that it went; and my heart knew it well.I may not know each plant as some men know them,As children gather beasts and birds to tame;But I went 'mid them as the winds that blow them,From childhood's hour, and loved without a name.There is more beauty in a field of weedsThan in all blooms the hothouse garden breeds.For they are nature's children; in their facesI see that sweet obedience to the skyThat marks these dwellers of the wilding places,Who with the season's being live and die;Knowing no love but of the wind and sun,Who still are nature's when their life is done.They are a part of all the haze-filled hours,The happy, happy world all drenched with light,The far-off, chiming click-clack of the mowers,And yon blue hills whose mists elude my sight;And they to me will ever bring in dreamsFar mist-clad heights and brimming rain-fed streams.
The ragged daisy starring all the fields,The buttercup abrim with pallid gold,The thistle and burr-flowers hedged with prickly shields,All common weeds the draggled pastures hold,With shrivelled pods and leaves, are kin to me,Like-heirs of earth and her maturity.
They speak a silent speech that is their own,These wise and gentle teachers of the grass;And when their brief and common days are flown,A certain beauty from the year doth pass:—A beauty of whose light no eye can tell,Save that it went; and my heart knew it well.
I may not know each plant as some men know them,As children gather beasts and birds to tame;But I went 'mid them as the winds that blow them,From childhood's hour, and loved without a name.There is more beauty in a field of weedsThan in all blooms the hothouse garden breeds.
For they are nature's children; in their facesI see that sweet obedience to the skyThat marks these dwellers of the wilding places,Who with the season's being live and die;Knowing no love but of the wind and sun,Who still are nature's when their life is done.
They are a part of all the haze-filled hours,The happy, happy world all drenched with light,The far-off, chiming click-clack of the mowers,And yon blue hills whose mists elude my sight;And they to me will ever bring in dreamsFar mist-clad heights and brimming rain-fed streams.
W. Wilfred Campbell
There will always be a number of men who would fain set themselves to the accumulation of wealth as the sole object of their lives. Necessarily, that class of men is an uneducated class, inferior in intellect, and, more or less, cowardly. It is physically impossible for a well-educated, intellectual, or brave man to make money the chief object of his thoughts; just as it is for him to make his dinner theprincipal object of them. All healthy people like their dinners, but their dinner is not the main object of their lives. So all healthily-minded people like making money—ought to like it, and to enjoy the sensation of winning it: but the main object of their life is not money; it is something better than money. A good soldier, for instance, mainly wishes to do his fighting well. He is glad of his pay—very properly so, and justly grumbles when you keep him ten years without it—still, his main notion of life is to win battles, not to be paid for winning them. So of clergymen. They like pew-rents, and baptismal fees, of course; but yet, if they are brave and well-educated, the pew-rent is not the sole object of their lives, and the baptismal fee is not the sole purpose of the baptism; the clergyman's object is essentially to baptize and preach, not to be paid for preaching. So of doctors. They like fees no doubt,—ought to like them; yet if they are brave and well-educated, the entire object of their lives is not fees. They, on the whole, desire to cure the sick; and,—if they are good doctors, and the choice were fairly put to them—would rather cure their patient, and lose their fee, than kill him, and get it. And so with all other braveand rightly-trained men; their work is first, their fee second—very important always, but stillsecond. But in every nation, as I said, there are a vast class who are ill-educated, cowardly, and more or less stupid. And with these people, just as certainly the fee is first, and the work second, as with brave people the work is first, and the fee second. And this is no small distinction. It is the whole distinction in a man; distinction between life and deathinhim, between heaven and hellforhim. You cannot serve two masters:—youmustserve one or other. If your work is first with you, and your fee second, work is your master, and the lord of work, who is God. But, if your fee is first with you, and your work second, fee is your master, and the lord of fee, who is the Devil; and not only the Devil but the lowest of devils—the 'least erected fiend that fell.' So there you have it in brief terms; Work first—you are God's servants; Fee first—you are the Fiend's. And it makes a difference, now and ever, believe me, whether you serve Him who has on His vesture and thigh written, 'King of Kings,' and whose service is perfect freedom; or him on whose vesture and thigh the name is written, 'Slave of Slaves,' and whose service is perfect slavery.
Ruskin
Where close the curving mountains drewTo clasp the stream in their embrace,With every outline, curve, and hue,Reflected in its placid face,The ploughman stopped his team, to watchThe train, as swift it thundered by;Some distant glimpse of life to catch,He strains his eager, wistful eye.His glossy horses mildly standWith wonder in their patient eyes,As through the tranquil mountain landThe snorting monster onward flies.The morning freshness is on him,Just wakened from his balmy dreams;The wayfarers, all soiled and dim,Think longingly of mountain streams:—O for the joyous mountain air!The long, delightful autumn dayAmong the hills!—the ploughman thereMust have perpetual holiday!And he, as all day long he guidesHis steady plough with patient hand,Thinks of the flying train that glidesInto some fair, enchanted land;Where day by day no plodding roundWearies the frame and dulls the mind;Where life thrills keen to sight and sound,With plough and furrows left behind!Even so to each the untrod waysOf life are touched by fancy's glow,That ever sheds its brightest raysUponthe page we do not know!
Where close the curving mountains drewTo clasp the stream in their embrace,With every outline, curve, and hue,Reflected in its placid face,
The ploughman stopped his team, to watchThe train, as swift it thundered by;Some distant glimpse of life to catch,He strains his eager, wistful eye.
His glossy horses mildly standWith wonder in their patient eyes,As through the tranquil mountain landThe snorting monster onward flies.
The morning freshness is on him,Just wakened from his balmy dreams;The wayfarers, all soiled and dim,Think longingly of mountain streams:—
O for the joyous mountain air!The long, delightful autumn dayAmong the hills!—the ploughman thereMust have perpetual holiday!
And he, as all day long he guidesHis steady plough with patient hand,Thinks of the flying train that glidesInto some fair, enchanted land;
Where day by day no plodding roundWearies the frame and dulls the mind;Where life thrills keen to sight and sound,With plough and furrows left behind!
Even so to each the untrod waysOf life are touched by fancy's glow,That ever sheds its brightest raysUponthe page we do not know!
Agnes Maule Machar
Calls the crow from the pine-tree topWhen the April air is still.He calls to the farmer hitching his teamIn the farmyard under the hill."Come up," he cries, "come out and come up,For the high field's ripe to till.Don't wait for word from the dandelionOr leave from the daffodil."Cheeps the flycatcher—"Here old earthWarms up in the April sun;And the first ephemera, wings yet wet,From the mould creep one by one.Under the fence where the flies frequentIs the earliest gossamer spun.Come up from the damp of the valley lands,For here the winter's done."Whistles the high-hole out of the groveHis summoning loud and clear:"Chilly it may be down your wayBut the high south field has cheer.On the sunward side of the chestnut stumpThe woodgrubs wake and appear.Come out to your ploughing, come up to your ploughing,The time for ploughing is here."Then dips the coulter and drives the share,And the furrows faintly steam.The crow drifts furtively down from the pineTo follow the clanking team.The flycatcher tumbles, the high-hole dartsIn the young noon's yellow gleam;And wholesome sweet the smell of the sodUpturned from its winter's dream.
Calls the crow from the pine-tree topWhen the April air is still.He calls to the farmer hitching his teamIn the farmyard under the hill."Come up," he cries, "come out and come up,For the high field's ripe to till.Don't wait for word from the dandelionOr leave from the daffodil."
Cheeps the flycatcher—"Here old earthWarms up in the April sun;And the first ephemera, wings yet wet,From the mould creep one by one.Under the fence where the flies frequentIs the earliest gossamer spun.Come up from the damp of the valley lands,For here the winter's done."
Whistles the high-hole out of the groveHis summoning loud and clear:"Chilly it may be down your wayBut the high south field has cheer.On the sunward side of the chestnut stumpThe woodgrubs wake and appear.Come out to your ploughing, come up to your ploughing,The time for ploughing is here."
Then dips the coulter and drives the share,And the furrows faintly steam.The crow drifts furtively down from the pineTo follow the clanking team.The flycatcher tumbles, the high-hole dartsIn the young noon's yellow gleam;And wholesome sweet the smell of the sodUpturned from its winter's dream.
Charles G. D. Roberts
"The day," said Waldemar, "is not yet very far spent—let the archers shoot a few rounds at the target, and the prize be adjudged."
One by one the archers, stepping forward, delivered their shafts yeomanlike and bravely. Of the ten shafts which hit the target, two within the inner ring were shot by Hubert, a forester in the service of Malvoisin, who was accordingly pronounced victorious.
"Now, Locksley," said Prince John with a bitter smile, "wilt thou try conclusions with Hubert?"
"Sith it be no better," said Locksley, "I am content to try my fortune; on condition that when I have shot two shafts at yonder mark of Hubert's, he shall be bound to shoot one at that which I shall propose."
"That is but fair," answered Prince John, "and it shall not be refused thee. If thou dost beat this braggart, Hubert, I will fill the bugle with silver pennies for thee."
"A man can but do his best," answered Hubert; "but my grandsire drew a good long bow at Hastings, and I trust not to dishonour his memory."
The former target was now removed, and a fresh one of the same size placed in its room. Hubert took his aim with great deliberation, long measuring the distance with his eye, while he held in his hand his bended bow, with the arrow placed on the string. At length he made a step forward, and raising the bow at the full stretch of his left arm, till the centre or grasping-place was nigh level with his face, he drew his bow-string to his ear. The arrow whistled through the air, and lighted within the inner ring of the target, but not exactly in the centre.
"You have not allowed for the wind, Hubert," said his antagonist, bending his bow, "or that had been a better shot."
So saying, and without showing the least anxiety to pause upon his aim, Locksley stepped to the appointed station, and shot his arrow as carelessly in appearance as if he had not even looked at the mark. He was speaking almost at the same instant that the shaft left the bow-string, yet it alighted in the target two inches nearer to the white spot which marked the centre than that of Hubert.
"By the light of heaven!" said Prince John to Hubert, "an thou suffer that runagate knave to overcome thee, thou art worthy of the gallows!"
"An your highness were to hang me," said Hubert, "a man can but do his best. Nevertheless, my grandsire drew a good bow——"
"The foul fiend on thy grandsire and all his generation!" interrupted John; "shoot, knave, and shoot thy best, or it shall be the worse for thee!"
Thus exhorted, Hubert resumed his place, and making the necessary allowance for a very light air of wind, which had just arisen, shot so successfully that his arrow alighted in the very centre of the target.
"Thou canst not mend that shot, Locksley," said the Prince with an insulting smile.
"I will notch his shaft for him, however," replied Locksley.
And letting fly his arrow with a little more precaution than before, it lighted right upon that of his competitor, which it split to shivers.
"And now," said Locksley, "I will crave your Grace's permission to plant such a mark as is used in the North Country, and welcome every brave yeoman who shall try a shot at it."
He then turned to leave the lists. "Let your guards attend me," he said, "if you please—I go but to cut a rod from the next willow-bush."
Locksley returned almost instantly with a willow wand about six feet in length, perfectly straight, and rather thicker than a man's thumb. He began to peel this, observing that to ask a good woodman to shoot at a target so broad as had hitherto been used, was to put shame upon his skill. "For my own part," he said, "and in the land where I was bred, men would as soon take for their mark King Arthur's round table, which held sixty knights around it. A child of seven years old," he said, "might hit yonder target with a headless shaft; but," added he, walking deliberately to the other end of the lists, and sticking the willow wand upright in the ground, "he that hits that rod at five-score yards, I call him an archer fit to bear bow and quiver before a king."
"My grandsire," said Hubert, "drew a good bow at the battle of Hastings, and never shot at such a mark in his life—and neither will I. If this yeoman can cleave that rod, I give him the bucklers—or rather, I yield to the devil that is in his jerkin, and not to any human skill; a man can but do his best, and I will not shoot where I am sure to miss. I might as well shoot at a sunbeam, as at a twinkling white streak which I can hardly see."
"Cowardly dog!" said Prince John—"Sirrah Locksley, do thou shoot; but, if thou hittest such a mark, I will say thou art the first man ever did so. Howe'er it be, thou shalt not crow over us with a mere show of superior skill."
"I will do my best, as Hubert says," answered Locksley; "no man can do more."
So saying, he again bent his bow, but on the present occasion looked with attention to his weapon, and changed the string, which he thought was no longer truly round, having been a little frayed by the two former shots. He then took his aim with some deliberation, and the multitude awaited the event in breathless silence. The archer vindicated their opinion of his skill: his arrow split the willow rod against which it was aimed. A jubilee of acclamations followed; and even Prince John, in admiration of Locksley's skill, lost for an instant his dislike to his person. "These twenty nobles," he said, "which, with the bugle, thou hast fairly won, are thine own; we will make them fifty, if thou wilt take livery and service with us as a yeoman of our body-guard, and be near to our person. For never did so strong a hand bend a bow, or so true an eye direct a shaft."
"Pardon me, noble Prince," said Locksley; "but I have vowed, that, if ever I take service, it should be with your royal brother, King Richard. These twenty nobles I leave to Hubert, who has this day drawn as brave a bow as his grandsire did at Hastings. Had his modesty not refused the trial, he would have hit the wand as well as I."
Hubert shook his head as he received with reluctance the bounty of the stranger; and Locksley, anxious to escape further observation, mixed with the crowd, and was seen no more.
Scott: "Ivanhoe."
The hills and leafless forests slowly yieldTo the thick-driving snow. A little whileAnd night shall darken down. In shouting fileThe woodmen's carts go by me homeward-wheeled,Past the thin fading stubbles, half-concealed,Now golden-gray, sowed softly through with snow,Where the last ploughman follows still his row,Turning black furrows through the whitening field.
The hills and leafless forests slowly yieldTo the thick-driving snow. A little whileAnd night shall darken down. In shouting fileThe woodmen's carts go by me homeward-wheeled,Past the thin fading stubbles, half-concealed,Now golden-gray, sowed softly through with snow,Where the last ploughman follows still his row,Turning black furrows through the whitening field.
Archibald Lampman
Ere, in the northern gale,The summer tresses of the trees are gone,The woods of Autumn, all around our vale,Have put their glory on.The mountains that infold,In their wide sweep, the coloured landscape round,Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold,That guard the enchanted ground.I roam the woods that crownThe upland, where the mingled splendours glow,Where the gay company of trees look downOn the green fields below.My steps are not aloneIn these bright walks; the sweet south-west, at playFlies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strownAlong the winding way.And far in heaven, the while,The sun, that sends that gale to wander here,Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,—The sweetest of the year.Where now the solemn shade,Verdure and gloom where many branches meet:So grateful, when the noon of summer madeThe valleys sick with heat?Let in through all the treesCome the strange rays; the forest depths are bright,Their sunny-coloured foliage, in the breeze,Twinkles, like beams of light.The rivulet, late unseen,Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run,Shines with the image of its golden screenAnd glimmerings of the sun.Oh, Autumn! why so soonDepart the hues that make thy forests glad,Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon,And leave thee wild and sad!Ah! 'twere a lot too blestForever in thy coloured shades to stray;Amid the kisses of the soft south-westTo rove and dream for aye;And leave the vain low strifeThat makes men mad—the tug for wealth and power,The passions and the cares that wither life,And waste its little hour.
Ere, in the northern gale,The summer tresses of the trees are gone,The woods of Autumn, all around our vale,Have put their glory on.
The mountains that infold,In their wide sweep, the coloured landscape round,Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold,That guard the enchanted ground.
I roam the woods that crownThe upland, where the mingled splendours glow,Where the gay company of trees look downOn the green fields below.
My steps are not aloneIn these bright walks; the sweet south-west, at playFlies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strownAlong the winding way.
And far in heaven, the while,The sun, that sends that gale to wander here,Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,—The sweetest of the year.
Where now the solemn shade,Verdure and gloom where many branches meet:So grateful, when the noon of summer madeThe valleys sick with heat?
Let in through all the treesCome the strange rays; the forest depths are bright,Their sunny-coloured foliage, in the breeze,Twinkles, like beams of light.
The rivulet, late unseen,Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run,Shines with the image of its golden screenAnd glimmerings of the sun.
Oh, Autumn! why so soonDepart the hues that make thy forests glad,Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon,And leave thee wild and sad!
Ah! 'twere a lot too blestForever in thy coloured shades to stray;Amid the kisses of the soft south-westTo rove and dream for aye;
And leave the vain low strifeThat makes men mad—the tug for wealth and power,The passions and the cares that wither life,And waste its little hour.
Bryant
Among all the modes of progression hitherto invented by restless man, there is not one that can compare in respect of comfort and luxury with travelling in a birch-bark canoe. It is the poetry of progression. Along the bottom of the boat are laid blankets and bedding; a sort of wicker-work screen is sloped against the middle thwart, affording a delicious support to the back; and indolently, in your shirt sleeves if the day be warm, or well covered with a blanket if it is chilly, you sit or lie on this most luxurious of couches, and are propelled at a rapid rate over the smooth surface of a lake or down the swift current of some stream. If you want exercise, you can take a paddle yourself. If you prefer to be inactive, you can lie still and placidly survey the scenery, rising occasionally to have a shot ata wild duck; at intervals reading, smoking, and sleeping. Sleep, indeed, you will enjoy most luxuriously, for the rapid bounding motion of the canoe as it leaps forward at every impulse of the crew, the sharp quick beat of the paddles on the water, and the roll of their shafts against the gunwale, with the continuous hiss and ripple of the stream cleft by the curving prow, combine to make a most soothing soporific.
Dreamily you lie side by side—you and your friend—lazily gazing at the pine-covered shores and wooded islands of some unknown lake, the open book unheeded on your knee; the half-smoked pipe drops into your lap; your head sinks gently back; and you wander into dreamland, to awake presently and find yourself sweeping round the curve of some majestic river, whose shores are blazing with the rich crimson, brown, and gold of the maple and other hardwood trees in their autumn dress.
Presently the current quickens. The best man shifts his place from the stern to the bow, and stands ready with his long-handled paddle to twist the frail boat out of reach of hidden rocks. The men's faces glow with excitement. Quicker and quicker flows the stream, breaking into little rapids, foaming round rocks, andrising in tumbling waves over the shallows. At a word from the bowman the crew redouble their efforts, the paddle shafts crash against the gunwale, the spray flies beneath the bending blades. The canoe shakes and quivers through all its fibres, leaping bodily at every stroke.
Before you is a seething mass of foam, its whiteness broken by horrid black rocks, one touch against whose jagged sides would rip the canoe into tatters and hurl you into eternity. Your ears are full of the roar of waters; waves leap up in all directions, as the river, maddened at obstruction, hurls itself through some narrow gorge. The bowman stands erect to take one look in silence, noting in that critical instant the line of deepest water; then bending to his work, with sharp, short words of command to the steersman, he directs the boat. The canoe seems to pitch headlong into space. Whack! comes a great wave over the bow; crash! comes another over the side. The bowman, his figure stooped, and his knees planted firmly against the sides, stands, with paddle poised in both hands, screaming to the crew to paddle hard; and the crew cheer and shout with excitement in return. You, too, get wild, and feel inclined to yell defiance to the roaring, hissing floodthat madly dashes you from side to side. After the first plunge you are in a bewildering whirl of waters. The shore seems to fly past you. Crash! You are right on that rock, and (I don't care who you are) you will feel your heart jump into your mouth, and you will catch the side with a grip that leaves a mark on your fingers afterwards. No! With a shriek of command to the steersman, and a plunge of his paddle, the bowman wrenches the canoe out of its course. Another stroke or two, another plunge forward, and with a loud exulting yell from the bowman, who flourishes his paddle round his head, you pitch headlong down the final leap, and with a grunt of relief from the straining crew glide rapidly into still water.
Lord Dunraven: "The Great Divide."
PARLIAMENT BUILDINGS. TORONTOPARLIAMENT BUILDINGS. TORONTO
"With whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning."
It fortifies my soul to knowThat, though I perish, Truth is so:That, howsoe'er I stray and range,Whate'er I do, Thou dost not change,I steadier step when I recallThat, if I slip Thou dost not fall.
It fortifies my soul to knowThat, though I perish, Truth is so:That, howsoe'er I stray and range,Whate'er I do, Thou dost not change,I steadier step when I recallThat, if I slip Thou dost not fall.
Clough
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise:My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen,Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills,There daily I wander as noon rises high,My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow:There, oft as mild ev'ning weeps over the lea,The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave.Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays,My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise:My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen,Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.
How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills,There daily I wander as noon rises high,My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.
How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow:There, oft as mild ev'ning weeps over the lea,The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.
Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave.
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays,My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Burns
I slept soundly until we got to Yarmouth and drove to the inn yard. A lady looked out of a bow-window where some fowls and joints of meat were hanging up, and said:
"Is that the little gentleman from Blunder-stone?"
"Yes, ma'am," I said.
The lady then rang a bell and called out: "William! show the coffee-room!" upon which a waiter came running out of a kitchen on the opposite side of the yard to show it, and seemed a good deal surprised when he found he was only to show it to me.
It was a large, long room with some large maps in it. I doubt if I could have felt much stranger if the maps had been real foreign countries, and I cast away in the middle of them. I felt it was taking a liberty to sit down, with my cap in my hand, on the corner of the chair nearest the door; and when the waiter laid a cloth on purpose for me, and put a set of casters on it, I think I must have turned red all over with modesty.
He brought me some chops, and vegetables, and took the covers off in such a bouncing manner that I was afraid I must have given him some offence. But he greatly relieved my mind by putting a chair for me at the table, and saying, very affably: "Now, six-foot! come on!"
I thanked him, and took my seat at the board; but found it extremely difficult to handle my knife and fork with anything like dexterity, or to avoid splashing myself with the gravy, while he was standing opposite, staring so hard, andmaking me blush in the most dreadful manner every time I caught his eye. After watching me into the second chop, he said:
"There's half a pint of ale for you. Will you have it now?"
I thanked him and said "Yes." Upon which he poured it out of a jug into a large tumbler, and held it up against the light, and made it look beautiful.
"My eye!" he said. "It seems a good deal, don't it?"
"It does seem a good deal," I answered with a smile. For it was quite delightful to me to find him so pleasant. He was a twinkling-eyed, pimple-faced man, with his hair standing upright all over his head; and as he stood with one arm a-kimbo, holding up the glass to the light with the other hand, he looked quite friendly.
"There was a gentleman here, yesterday," he said—"a stout gentleman, by the name of Topsawyer—perhaps you know him."
"No," I said, "I don't think—"
"In breeches and gaiters, broad-brimmed hat, gray coat, speckled choker," said the waiter.
"No," I said, bashfully, "I haven't the pleasure—"
"He came in here," said the waiter, looking at the light through the tumbler, "ordered a glass of this ale—wouldorder it—I told him not—drank it, and fell dead. It was too old for him. It oughtn't to be drawn; that's the fact."
I was very much shocked to hear of this melancholy accident, and said I thought I had better have some water.
"Why, you see," said the waiter, still looking at the light through the tumbler, with one of his eyes shut up, "our people don't like things being ordered and left. It offends 'em. ButI'lldrink it, if you like. I'm used to it, and use is everything. I don't think it'll hurt me, if I throw my head back, and take it off quick. Shall I?"
I replied that he would much oblige me by drinking it, if he thought he could do it safely, but by no means otherwise. When he did throw his head back and take it off quick, I had a horrible fear, I confess, of seeing him meet the fate of the lamented Mr. Topsawyer, and fall lifeless on the carpet. But it didn't hurt him. On the contrary, I thought he seemed the fresher for it.
"What have we got here?" he said, putting a fork into my dish. "Not chops?"
"Chops," I said.
"Bless my soul!" he exclaimed, "I didn't know they were chops. Why, a chop's the very thing to take off the bad effects of that beer! Ain't it lucky?"
So he took a chop by the bone in one hand, and a potato in the other, and ate away with a very good appetite, to my extreme satisfaction. He afterwards took another chop, and another potato; and after that another chop, and another potato. When he had done, he brought me a pudding, and having set it before me, seemed to ruminate, and to become absent in his mind for some moments.
"How's the pie?" he said, rousing himself.
"It's a pudding," I made answer.
"Pudding!" he exclaimed. "Why, bless me, so it is! What!" looking at it nearer. "You don't mean to say it's a batter-pudding?"
"Yes, it is indeed."
"Why, a batter-pudding," he said, taking up a table-spoon, "it's my favourite pudding! Ain't that lucky? Come on, little 'un, and let's see who'll get most."
The waiter certainly got most. He entreated me more than once to come in and win, but what with his table-spoon to my tea-spoon, hisdespatch to my despatch, and his appetite to my appetite, I was left far behind at the first mouthful, and had no chance with him. I never saw any one enjoy a pudding so much, I think; and he laughed, when it was all gone, as if his enjoyment of it lasted still.
Finding him so very friendly and companionable, it was then that I asked for the pen and ink and paper, to write to Peggoty. He not only brought it immediately, but was good enough to look over me while I wrote the letter. When I had finished it, he asked me where I was going to school.
I said: "Near London," which was all I knew.
"Oh! my eye!" he said, looking very low-spirited, "I am sorry for that."
"Why?" I asked him.
"Oh!" he said, shaking his head, "that's the school where they broke the boy's ribs—two ribs—a little boy he was. I should say he was—let me see—how old are you, about?"
I told him between eight and nine.
"That's just his age," he said. "He was eight years and six months old when they broke his first rib; eight years and eight months old when they broke his second, and did for him."
I could not disguise from myself, or from thewaiter, that this was an uncomfortable coincidence, and inquired how it was done. His answer was not cheering to my spirits, for it consisted of two dismal words, "With whopping."
The blowing of the coach-horn in the yard was a seasonable diversion, which made me get up and hesitatingly inquire, in the mingled pride and diffidence of having a purse (which I took out of my pocket), if there were anything to pay.
"There's a sheet of letter-paper," he returned. "Did you ever buy a sheet of letter-paper?"
I could not remember that I ever had.
"It's dear," he said, "on account of the duty. Threepence. That's the way we're taxed in this country. There's nothing else, except the waiter. Never mind the ink!Ilose by that."
"What should you—what should I—how much ought I to—what would it be right to pay the waiter, if you please?" I stammered, blushing.
"If I hadn't a family, and that family hadn't the cowpock," said the waiter, "I wouldn't take a sixpence. If I didn't support a aged pairint, and a lovely sister,"—here the waiter was greatly agitated—"I wouldn't take a farthing.If I had a good place, and was treated well here, I should beg acceptance of a trifle, instead of taking of it. But I live on broken wittles—and I sleep on the coals"—here the waiter burst into tears.
I was very much concerned for his misfortunes, and felt that any recognition short of ninepence would be mere brutality and hardness of heart, Therefore I gave him one of my three bright shillings, which he received with much humility and veneration, and spun up with his thumb, directly afterwards, to try the goodness of.
It was a little disconcerting to me, to find, when I was being helped up behind the coach, that I was supposed to have eaten all the dinner without any assistance. I discovered this, from overhearing the lady in the bow-window say to the guard: "Take care of that child, George, or he'll burst!" and from observing that the women-servants who were about the place came out to look and giggle at me as a young phenomenon. My unfortunate friend, the waiter, who had quite recovered his spirits, did not appear to be disturbed by this, but joined in the general admiration without being at all confused. If I had any doubt of him, I suppose this half-awakened it; but I am inclined to believe that, with the simple confidence and natural reliance of a child upon superior years (qualities I am very sorry any children should prematurely change for worldly wisdom), I had no serious mistrust of him on the whole, even then.
Dickens: "David Copperfield."
Blessings on thee, little man,Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!With thy turned-up pantaloons,And thy merry whistled tunes;With thy red lip, redder stillKissed by strawberries on the hill;With the sunshine on thy face,Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace;From my heart I give thee joy,—I was once a barefoot boy!Prince thou art,—the grown-up manOnly is republican.Let the million-dollared ride!Barefoot, trudging at his side,Thou hast more than he can buyIn the reach of ear and eye,—Outward sunshine, inward joy;Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!Oh for boyhood's painless play,Sleep that wakes in laughing day,Health that mocks the doctor's rules,Knowledge never learned of schools,Of the wild bee's morning chase,Of the wild-flower's time and place,Flight of fowl and habitudeOf the tenants of the wood;How the tortoise bears his shell,How the woodchuck digs his cell,And the ground-mole sinks his well;How the robin feeds her young,How the oriole's nest is hung;Where the whitest lilies blow,Where the freshest berries grow,Where the ground-nut trails its vine,Where the wood-grape's clusters shine;Of the black wasp's cunning way,Mason of his walls of clay,And the architectural plansOf gray hornet artisans!—For, eschewing books and tasks,Nature answers all he asks;Hand in hand with her he walks,Face to face with her he talks,Part and parcel of her joy,—Blessings on the barefoot boy!Oh for boyhood's time of June,Crowding years in one brief moon,When all things I heard or saw,Me, their master, waited for.I was rich in flowers and trees,Humming-birds and honey-bees;For my sport the squirrel played,Plied the snouted mole his spade;For my taste the blackberry conePurpled over hedge and stone;Laughed the brook for my delightThrough the day and through the night,Whispering at the garden wall,Talked with me from fall to fall,Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,Mine the walnut slopes beyond,Mine, on bending orchard trees,Apples of Hesperides!Still, as my horizon grew,Larger grew my riches, too;All the world I saw or knewSeemed a complex Chinese toy,Fashioned for a barefoot boy!Oh for festal dainties spread,Like my bowl of milk and bread;—Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,On the door-stone, gray and rude!O'er me, like a regal tent,Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,Looped in many a wind-swung fold;While for music came the playOf the pied frogs' orchestra;And, to light the noisy choir,Lit the fly his lamp of fire.I was monarch: pomp and joyWaited on the barefoot boy!Cheerily, then, my little man,Live and laugh, as boyhood can!Though the flinty slopes be hard,Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,Every morn shall lead thee throughFresh baptisms of the dew;Every evening from thy feetShall the cool wind kiss the heat;All too soon these feet must hideIn the prison cells of pride,Lose the freedom of the sod,Like a colt's for work be shod,Made to tread the mills of toil,Up and down in ceaseless moil;Happy if their track be foundNever on forbidden ground;Happy if they sink not inQuick and treacherous sands of sin.Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,Ere it passes, barefoot boy!
Blessings on thee, little man,Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!With thy turned-up pantaloons,And thy merry whistled tunes;With thy red lip, redder stillKissed by strawberries on the hill;With the sunshine on thy face,Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace;From my heart I give thee joy,—I was once a barefoot boy!Prince thou art,—the grown-up manOnly is republican.Let the million-dollared ride!Barefoot, trudging at his side,Thou hast more than he can buyIn the reach of ear and eye,—Outward sunshine, inward joy;Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!
Oh for boyhood's painless play,Sleep that wakes in laughing day,Health that mocks the doctor's rules,Knowledge never learned of schools,Of the wild bee's morning chase,Of the wild-flower's time and place,Flight of fowl and habitudeOf the tenants of the wood;How the tortoise bears his shell,How the woodchuck digs his cell,And the ground-mole sinks his well;How the robin feeds her young,How the oriole's nest is hung;Where the whitest lilies blow,Where the freshest berries grow,Where the ground-nut trails its vine,Where the wood-grape's clusters shine;Of the black wasp's cunning way,Mason of his walls of clay,And the architectural plansOf gray hornet artisans!—For, eschewing books and tasks,Nature answers all he asks;Hand in hand with her he walks,Face to face with her he talks,Part and parcel of her joy,—Blessings on the barefoot boy!
Oh for boyhood's time of June,Crowding years in one brief moon,When all things I heard or saw,Me, their master, waited for.I was rich in flowers and trees,Humming-birds and honey-bees;For my sport the squirrel played,Plied the snouted mole his spade;For my taste the blackberry conePurpled over hedge and stone;Laughed the brook for my delightThrough the day and through the night,Whispering at the garden wall,Talked with me from fall to fall,Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,Mine the walnut slopes beyond,Mine, on bending orchard trees,Apples of Hesperides!Still, as my horizon grew,Larger grew my riches, too;All the world I saw or knewSeemed a complex Chinese toy,Fashioned for a barefoot boy!
Oh for festal dainties spread,Like my bowl of milk and bread;—Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,On the door-stone, gray and rude!O'er me, like a regal tent,Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,Looped in many a wind-swung fold;While for music came the playOf the pied frogs' orchestra;And, to light the noisy choir,Lit the fly his lamp of fire.I was monarch: pomp and joyWaited on the barefoot boy!
Cheerily, then, my little man,Live and laugh, as boyhood can!Though the flinty slopes be hard,Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,Every morn shall lead thee throughFresh baptisms of the dew;Every evening from thy feetShall the cool wind kiss the heat;All too soon these feet must hideIn the prison cells of pride,Lose the freedom of the sod,Like a colt's for work be shod,Made to tread the mills of toil,Up and down in ceaseless moil;Happy if their track be foundNever on forbidden ground;Happy if they sink not inQuick and treacherous sands of sin.Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,Ere it passes, barefoot boy!
Whittier