"I slept, and dreamed that life was beauty;I woke, and found that life was duty."
"I slept, and dreamed that life was beauty;I woke, and found that life was duty."
Daffydowndilly was so called because in his nature he resembled a flower, and loved to do only what was beautiful and agreeable, and took no delight in labour of any kind. But while Daffydowndilly was yet a little boy, his mother sent him away from his pleasant home, and put him under the care of a very strict schoolmaster, who went by the name of Mr. Toil. Those who knew him best affirmed that this Mr. Toil was a very worthy character; and that he had done more good, both to children and grown people, than anybody else in the world.
Certainly he had lived long enough to do a great deal of good; for, if all stories be true, he had dwelt upon earth ever since Adam was driven from the garden of Eden.
Nevertheless, Mr. Toil had a severe and ugly countenance, especially for such little boys or big men as were inclined to be idle; his voice, too, was harsh; and all his ways and customs seemed very disagreeable to our friend Daffydowndilly. The whole day long this terrible schoolmaster sat at his desk overlooking the scholars, or stalked about the school-room with a certain awful birch rod in his hand. Now came a rap over the shoulders of a boy whom Mr. Toil had caught at play; now he punished a whole class who were behindhand with their lessons; and, in short, unless a lad chose to attend quietly and constantly to his book, he had no chance of enjoying a quiet moment in the school-room of Mr. Toil.
"This will never do for me," thought Daffydowndilly.
Now the whole of Daffydowndilly's life had hitherto been passed with his dear mother, who had a much sweeter face than old Mr. Toil, and who had always been very indulgent to her little boy. No wonder, therefore, that poor Daffydowndilly found it a woeful change to be sent away from the good lady's side and put under the care of this ugly-visaged schoolmaster, who never gave him any apples or cakes, and seemed to think that little boys were created only to get lessons.
"I can't bear it any longer," said Daffydowndilly to himself, when he had been at school about a week. "I'll run away and try to find my dear mother; and, at any rate, I shall never find anybody half so disagreeable as this old Mr. Toil!"
So the very next morning, off started poor Daffydowndilly, and began his rambles about the world, with only some bread and cheese for his breakfast, and very little pocket-money to pay his expenses. But he had gone only a short distance when he overtook a man of grave and sedate appearance, who was trudging at a moderate pace along the road.
"Good-morning, my lad," said the stranger; and his voice seemed hard and severe, but yet had a sort of kindness in it. "Whence do you come so early, and whither are you going?"
Little Daffydowndilly was a boy of a very ingenuous disposition, and had never been known to tell a lie in all his life. Nor did he tell one now. He hesitated a moment or two, but finally confessed that he had run away from school, on account of his great dislike for Mr. Toil; and that he was resolved to find some place in the world where he should never see or hear of the old schoolmaster again.
"Oh, very well, my little friend!" answered the stranger. "Then we will go together; for I, likewise, have had a good deal to do with Mr. Toil, and should be glad to find some place where he was never heard of."
Our friend Daffydowndilly would have been better pleased with a companion of his own age, with whom he might have gathered flowers along the road-side, or have chased butterflies, or have done many other things to make the journey pleasant. But he had wisdom enough to understand that he should get along through the world much easier by having a man of experience to show him the way. So he accepted the stranger's proposal, and they walked on very sociably together.
They had not gone far, when the road passed by a field where some haymakers were at work, mowing down the tall grass and spreading it out in the sun to dry. Daffydowndilly was delighted with the sweet smell of the new-mown grass, and thought how much pleasanter it must be to make hay in the sunshine under the blue sky, and with the birds singing sweetly in the neighbouring trees and bushes, than to be shut up in a dismal school-room, learning lessons all day long, and continually scolded by old Mr. Toil. But, in the midst of these thoughts, while he was stopping to peep over the stone wall, he started back and caught hold of his companion's hand.
"Quick, quick!" cried he. "Let us run away, or he will catch us!"
"Who will catch us?" asked the stranger.
"Mr. Toil, the old schoolmaster!" answered Daffydowndilly. "Don't you see him amongst the haymakers?"
And Daffydowndilly pointed to an elderly man, who seemed to be the owner of the field, and the employer of the men at work there. He had stripped off his coat and waistcoat, and was busily at work in his shirt sleeves. The drops of sweat stood upon his brow; but he gave himself not a moment's rest, and kept crying out to the haymakers to make hay while the sun shone. Now, strange to say, the figure and features of this old farmer were precisely the same as those of old Mr. Toil, who, at that very moment, must have been just entering his school-room.
"Don't be afraid," said the stranger. "This is not Mr. Toil, the schoolmaster, but a brother of his, who was bred a farmer; and the people say he is the more disagreeable man of the two. However, he won't trouble you unless you become a labourer on the farm."
Little Daffydowndilly believed what his companion said, but he was very glad, nevertheless, when they were out of sight of the old farmer, who bore such a singular resemblance to Mr. Toil. The two travellers had gone but little farther, when they came to a spot where some carpenters were erecting a house. Daffydowndilly begged his companion to stop a moment; for it was a very pretty sight to see how neatly the carpenters did their work, with their broad-axes and saws, and planes, and hammers, shaping out the doors, and putting in the window-sashes, and nailing on the clap-boards; and he could not help thinking that he should like to take a broad-axe, a saw, a plane, and a hammer, and build a little house for himself. And then, when he should have a house of his own, old Mr. Toil would never dare to molest him.
But, just while he was delighting himself with this idea, little Daffydowndilly beheld something that made him catch hold of his companion's hand, all in a fright.
"Make haste. Quick, quick!" cried he. "There he is again!" "Who?" asked the stranger, very quietly.
"Old Mr. Toil," said Daffydowndilly, trembling.
"There! he that is overseeing the carpenters. 'Tis my old schoolmaster, as sure as I'm alive!"
The stranger cast his eyes where Daffydowndilly pointed his finger; and he saw an elderly man, with a carpenter's rule and compass in his hand. This person went to and fro about the unfinished house, measuring pieces of timber and marking out the work that was to be done, and continually exhorting the other carpenters to be diligent. And wherever he turned his hard and wrinkled visage, the men seemed to feel that they had a task-master over them, and sawed, and hammered, and planed, as if for dear life.
"Oh, no! this is not Mr. Toil, the schoolmaster," said the stranger. "It is another brother of his, who follows the trade of carpenter."
"I am very glad to hear it," quoth Daffydowndilly; "but if you please, sir, I should like to get out of his way as soon as possible."
Then they went on a little farther, and soon heard the sound of a drum and fife. Daffydowndilly pricked up his ears at this, and besought his companion to hurry forward, that they might not miss seeing the soldiers. Accordingly they made what haste they could, and soon met a company of soldiers gaily dressed, with beautiful feathers in their caps, and bright muskets on their shoulders. In front marched two drummers and two fifers, beating on their drums and making such lively music that little Daffydowndilly would gladly have followed them to the end of the world. And if he was only a soldier, then, he said to himself, old Mr. Toil would never venture to look him in the face.
"Quick step! Forward march!" shouted a gruff voice.
Little Daffydowndilly started, in great dismay; for this voice which had spoken to the soldiers sounded precisely the same as that which he had heard every day in Mr. Toil's school-room, out of Mr. Toil's own mouth. And, turning his eyes to the captain of the company, what should he see but the very image of old Mr. Toil himself, with a smart cap and feather on his head, a pair of gold epaulets on his shoulders, a laced coat on his back, a purple sash round his waist, and a long sword, instead of a birch rod, in his hand. And though he held his head so high, and strutted like a turkey-cock, still he looked quite as ugly and disagreeable as when he was hearing lessons in the school-room.
"This is certainly old Mr. Toil," said Daffydowndilly, in a trembling voice. "Let us run away for fear he should make us enlist in his company!"
"You are mistaken again, my little friend," replied the stranger, very composedly. "This is not Mr. Toil, the schoolmaster, but a brother of his, who has served in the army all his life. People say he's a terribly severe fellow; but you and I need not be afraid of him."
"Well, well," said little Daffydowndilly, "but if you please, sir, I don't want to see the soldiers any more."
So the child and the stranger resumed their journey; and, by and by, they came to a house by the road-side, where a number of people were making merry. Young men and rosy-cheeked girls, with smiles on their faces, were dancing to the sound of a fiddle. It was the pleasantest sight that Daffydowndilly had yet met with, and it comforted him for all his disappointments.
"Oh, let us stop here," cried he to his companion; "for Mr. Toil will never dare to show his face where there is a fiddler, and where people are dancing and making merry. We shall be quite safe here!"
But these last words died away upon Daffydowndilly's tongue; for, happening to cast his eyes on the fiddler, whom should he behold again but the likeness of Mr. Toil, holding a fiddle-bow instead of a birch rod, and flourishing it with as much ease and dexterity as if he had been a fiddler all his life! He had somewhat the air of a Frenchman, but still looked exactly like the old schoolmaster; and Daffydowndilly even fancied that he nodded and winked at him, and made signs for him to join in the dance.
"Oh, dear me!" whispered he, turning pale, "it seems as if there was nobody but Mr. Toil in the world. Who could have thought of his playing on a fiddle!"
"This is not your old schoolmaster," observed the stranger, "but another brother of his, who was bred in France, where he learned the profession of a fiddler. He is ashamed of his family, and generally calls himself Monsieur le Plaisir; but his real name is Toil, and those who have known him best think him still more disagreeable than his brothers."
"Oh, take me back!—take me back!" cried poor little Daffydowndilly, bursting into tears. "If there is nothing but Toil all the world over, I may just as well go back to the school-house!"
"Yonder it is,—there is the school-house!" said the stranger, for though he and Daffydowndilly had taken a great many steps, they had travelled in a circle instead of a straight line. "Come; we will go back to school together."
There was something in his companion's voice that little Daffydowndilly now remembered, and it is strange that he had not remembered it sooner. Looking up into his face, behold! there again was the likeness of old Mr. Toil; so that the poor child had been in company with Toil all day, even while he was doing his best to run away from him. Some people, to whom I have told little Daffydowndilly's story, are of the opinion that old Mr. Toil was a magician, and possessed the power of multiplying himself into as many shapes as he saw fit.
Be this as it may, little Daffydowndilly had learned a good lesson, and from that time forward was diligent at his task, because he knew that diligence is not a whit more toilsome than sport or idleness. And when he became better acquainted with Mr. Toil, he began to think that his ways were not so very disagreeable, and that the old schoolmaster's smile of approbation made his face almost as pleasant as even that of Daffydowndilly's mother.
Nathaniel Hawthorne
Across the narrow beach we flit,One little sandpiper and I;And fast I gather, bit by bit,The scattered driftwood bleached and dry.The wild waves reach their hands for it,The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,As up and down the beach we flit,—One little sandpiper and I.Above our heads the sullen cloudsScud black and swift across the sky:Like silent ghosts in misty shroudsStand out the white lighthouses high.Almost as far as eye can reachI see the close-reefed vessels fly,As fast we flit along the beach,—One little sandpiper and I.I watch him as he skims along,Uttering his sweet and mournful cry;He starts not at my fitful song,Or flash of fluttering drapery;He has no thought of any wrong,He scans me with a fearless eye.Stanch friends are we, well-tried and strong,The little sandpiper and I.Comrade, where wilt thou be to-nightWhen the loosed storm breaks furiously?My driftwood-fire will burn so bright!To what warm shelter canst thou fly?I do not fear for thee, though wrothThe tempest rushes through the sky:For are we not God's children both,Thou, little sandpiper, and I?
Across the narrow beach we flit,One little sandpiper and I;And fast I gather, bit by bit,The scattered driftwood bleached and dry.The wild waves reach their hands for it,The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,As up and down the beach we flit,—One little sandpiper and I.
Above our heads the sullen cloudsScud black and swift across the sky:Like silent ghosts in misty shroudsStand out the white lighthouses high.Almost as far as eye can reachI see the close-reefed vessels fly,As fast we flit along the beach,—One little sandpiper and I.
I watch him as he skims along,Uttering his sweet and mournful cry;He starts not at my fitful song,Or flash of fluttering drapery;He has no thought of any wrong,He scans me with a fearless eye.Stanch friends are we, well-tried and strong,The little sandpiper and I.
Comrade, where wilt thou be to-nightWhen the loosed storm breaks furiously?My driftwood-fire will burn so bright!To what warm shelter canst thou fly?I do not fear for thee, though wrothThe tempest rushes through the sky:For are we not God's children both,Thou, little sandpiper, and I?
Celia Thaxter
Blessed are the poor in spirit: for their's is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled. Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God. Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.
Again, ye have heard that it hath been said by them of old time, Thou shalt not forswear thyself, but shalt perform unto the Lord thine oaths. But I say unto you, Swear not at all; neither by heaven; for it is God's throne: nor by the earth; for it is his footstool: neither by Jerusalem; for it is the city of the great King. Neither shalt thou swear by thy head, because thou canst not make one hair white or black.
Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbour, and hate thine enemy. But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you; that ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven: for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust. For if ye love them which love you, what reward have ye? do not even the publicans the same? And if ye salute your brethren only, what do ye more than others? do not even the publicans so? Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect.
St. Matthew, V.
For many a year Saint ChristopherServed God in many a land;And master painters drew his face,With loving heart and hand,On altar fronts and churches' walls;And peasants used to say,—To look on good Saint ChristopherBrought luck for all the day.For many a year, in lowly hut,The giant dwelt contentUpon the bank, and back and forthAcross the stream he went;And on his giant shoulders boreAll travellers who came,By night, by day, or rich or poor,All in King Jesus' name.But much he doubted if the KingHis work would note or know,And often with a weary heartHe waded to and fro.One night, as wrapped in sleep he lay,He sudden heard a call,—"O Christopher, come, carry me!"He sprang, looked out, but allWas dark and silent on the shore,"It must be that I dreamed,"He said, and laid him down again;But instantly there seemedAgain the feeble, distant cry,—"Oh, come and carry me!"Again he sprang and looked: againNo living thing could see.The third time came the plaintive voice,Like infant's, soft and weak;With lantern strode the giant forth,More carefully to seek.Down on the bank a little childHe found,—a piteous sight,—Who weeping, earnestly imploredTo cross that very night.With gruff good will he picked him up,And on his neck to rideHe tossed him, as men play with babes,And plunged into the tide.But as the water closed aroundHis knees, the infant's weightGrew heavier, and heavier,Until it was so greatThe giant scarce could stand upright,His staff shook in his hand,His mighty knees bent under him,He barely reached the land.And, staggering, set the infant down,And turned to scan his face;When, lo! he saw a halo brightWhich lit up all the place.Then Christopher fell down, afraidAt marvel of the thing,And dreamed not that it was the faceOf Jesus Christ, his King.Until the infant spoke, and said:"O Christopher, behold!I am the Lord whom thou hast served,Rise up, be glad and bold!"For I have seen and noted well,Thy works of charity;And that thou art my servant goodA token thou shalt see.Plant firmly here upon this bankThy stalwart staff of pine,And it shall blossom and bear fruit,This very hour, in sign."Then, vanishing, the infant smiled.The giant, left alone,Saw on the bank, with luscious dates,His stout pine staff bent down.I think the lesson is as goodTo-day as it was then—As good to us called ChristiansAs to the heathen men—The lesson of Saint Christopher,Who spent his strength for others,And saved his soul by working hardTo help and save his brothers!
For many a year Saint ChristopherServed God in many a land;And master painters drew his face,With loving heart and hand,On altar fronts and churches' walls;And peasants used to say,—To look on good Saint ChristopherBrought luck for all the day.
For many a year, in lowly hut,The giant dwelt contentUpon the bank, and back and forthAcross the stream he went;And on his giant shoulders boreAll travellers who came,By night, by day, or rich or poor,All in King Jesus' name.
But much he doubted if the KingHis work would note or know,And often with a weary heartHe waded to and fro.One night, as wrapped in sleep he lay,He sudden heard a call,—"O Christopher, come, carry me!"He sprang, looked out, but all
Was dark and silent on the shore,"It must be that I dreamed,"He said, and laid him down again;But instantly there seemedAgain the feeble, distant cry,—"Oh, come and carry me!"Again he sprang and looked: againNo living thing could see.
The third time came the plaintive voice,Like infant's, soft and weak;With lantern strode the giant forth,More carefully to seek.Down on the bank a little childHe found,—a piteous sight,—Who weeping, earnestly imploredTo cross that very night.
With gruff good will he picked him up,And on his neck to rideHe tossed him, as men play with babes,And plunged into the tide.But as the water closed aroundHis knees, the infant's weightGrew heavier, and heavier,Until it was so great
The giant scarce could stand upright,His staff shook in his hand,His mighty knees bent under him,He barely reached the land.And, staggering, set the infant down,And turned to scan his face;When, lo! he saw a halo brightWhich lit up all the place.
Then Christopher fell down, afraidAt marvel of the thing,And dreamed not that it was the faceOf Jesus Christ, his King.Until the infant spoke, and said:"O Christopher, behold!I am the Lord whom thou hast served,Rise up, be glad and bold!
"For I have seen and noted well,Thy works of charity;And that thou art my servant goodA token thou shalt see.Plant firmly here upon this bankThy stalwart staff of pine,And it shall blossom and bear fruit,This very hour, in sign."
Then, vanishing, the infant smiled.The giant, left alone,Saw on the bank, with luscious dates,His stout pine staff bent down.
I think the lesson is as goodTo-day as it was then—As good to us called ChristiansAs to the heathen men—The lesson of Saint Christopher,Who spent his strength for others,And saved his soul by working hardTo help and save his brothers!
Helen Hunt Jackson
The sun already shone brightly as William Tell entered the town of Altorf, and he advanced at once to the public place, where the first object that caught his eyes was a handsome cap, embroidered with gold, stuck upon the end of a long pole. Soldiers were walking around it in silence, and the people of Altorf, as they passed, bowed their head to the symbol of authority. The cap had been set up by Gessler, the Austrian commander, for the purpose of discovering those who were not submissive to the Austrian power, which had ruled the people of the Swiss Cantons for a long time with great severity. He suspected that the people were about to break into rebellion, and with a view to learn who were the most discontented, he had placed the ducal cap of Austria on this pole, publicly proclaiming that every one passing near, or within sight of it, should bow before it, in proof of his homage to the duke.
Tell was much surprised at this new and strange attempt to humble the people, and, leaning on his cross-bow, gazed scornfully on them and the soldiers. Berenger, captain of the guard, at length observed this man, who alone amidst the cringing crowd carried his head erect. He ordered him to be seized and disarmed by the soldiers, and then conducted him to Gessler, who put some questions to him, which he answered so haughtily that Gessler was both surprised and angry. Suddenly, he was struck by the likeness between him and the boy Walter Tell, whom he had seized and put in prison the previous day for uttering some seditious words; he immediately asked his name, which he no sooner heard than he knew him to be the archer so famous, as the best marksman in the Canton.
Gessler at once resolved to punish both father and son at the same time, by a method which was perhaps the most refined act of torture which man ever imagined. As soon, then, as the youth was brought out, the governor turned to Tell, and said: "I have often heard of thy great skill as an archer, and I now intend to put it to the proof. Thy son shall be placed at a distance of a hundred yards, with an apple on his head. If thou strikest the apple with thy arrow, I will pardon you both; but if thou refusest this trial, thy son shall die before thine eyes."
Tell implored Gessler to spare him so cruel a trial, in which he might perhaps kill his beloved boy with his own hand. The governor would not alter his purpose; so Tell at last agreed to shoot at the apple, as the only chance of saving his son's life. Walter stood with his back to a linden tree. Gessler, some distance behind, watched every motion. His cross-bow and one arrow were handed to Tell; he tried the point, broke the weapon, and demanded his quiver. It was brought to him and emptied at his feet. He stooped down, and taking a long time to choose an arrow, he managed to hide a second in his girdle.
After being in doubt a long time, his whole soul beaming in his face, his love for his son rendering him almost powerless, he at length roused himself—drew the bow—aimed—shot—and the apple, struck to the core, was carried away by the arrow.
The market-place of Altorf was filled by loud cheers. Walter flew to embrace his father, who, overcome by his emotion, fell fainting to the ground, thus exposing the second arrow to view. Gessler stood over him, awaiting his recovery, which speedily taking place, Tell rose, and turned away from the governor with horror. The latter, however, scarcely yet believing his senses, thus addressed him: "Incomparable archer, I will keep my promise; but what needed you with that second arrow which I see in your girdle?"
Tell replied: "It is the custom of the bowmen of Uri to have always one arrow in reserve."
"Nay, nay," said Gessler, "tell me thy real motive; and, whatever it may have been, speak frankly, and thy life is spared."
"The second shaft," replied Tell, "was to pierce thy heart, tyrant, if I had chanced to harm my son."
Chamber's"Tracts."
O, father's gone to market-town, he was up before the day,And Jamie's after robins, and the man is making hay,And whistling down the hollow goes the boy that minds the mill,While mother from the kitchen door is calling with a will:"Polly!—Polly!—The cows are in the corn!O, where's Polly?"From all the misty morning air there comes a summer sound—A murmur as of waters from skies and trees and ground.The birds they sing upon the wing, the pigeons bill and coo,And over hill and hollow rings again the loud halloo:"Polly!—Polly!—The cows are in the corn!O, where's Polly?"Above the trees the honey-bees swarm by with buzz and boom,And in the field and garden a thousand blossoms bloom.Within the farmer's meadow a brown-eyed daisy blows,And down at the edge of the hollow a red and thorny rose.But Polly!—Polly!—The cows are in the corn!O, where's Polly?How strange at such a time of day the mill should stop its clatter!The farmer's wife is listening now and wonders what's the matter.O, wild the birds are singing in the wood and on the hill,While whistling up the hollow goes the boy that minds the mill.But Polly!—Polly!—The cows are in the corn!O, where's Polly?
O, father's gone to market-town, he was up before the day,And Jamie's after robins, and the man is making hay,And whistling down the hollow goes the boy that minds the mill,While mother from the kitchen door is calling with a will:"Polly!—Polly!—The cows are in the corn!O, where's Polly?"
From all the misty morning air there comes a summer sound—A murmur as of waters from skies and trees and ground.The birds they sing upon the wing, the pigeons bill and coo,And over hill and hollow rings again the loud halloo:"Polly!—Polly!—The cows are in the corn!O, where's Polly?"
Above the trees the honey-bees swarm by with buzz and boom,And in the field and garden a thousand blossoms bloom.Within the farmer's meadow a brown-eyed daisy blows,And down at the edge of the hollow a red and thorny rose.But Polly!—Polly!—The cows are in the corn!O, where's Polly?
How strange at such a time of day the mill should stop its clatter!The farmer's wife is listening now and wonders what's the matter.O, wild the birds are singing in the wood and on the hill,While whistling up the hollow goes the boy that minds the mill.But Polly!—Polly!—The cows are in the corn!O, where's Polly?
Richard Watson Gilder
On every side death stared us in the face; no human skill could avert it any longer. We saw the moment approach when we must bid farewell to earth, yet without feeling that unutterable horror which must have been experienced by the unhappy victims at Cawnpore. We were resolved rather to die than yield, and were fully persuaded that in twenty-four hours all would be over. The engineer had said so, and all knew the worst. We women strove to encourage each other, and to perform the light duties which had been assigned to us, such as conveying orders to the batteries, and supplying the men with provisions, especially cups of coffee, which we prepared day and night.
I had gone out to try to make myself useful, in company with Jessie Brown, the wife of a corporal in my husband's regiment. Poor Jessie had been in a state of restless excitement all through the siege, and had fallen away visibly within the last few days. A constant fever consumed her, and her mind wandered occasionally, especially that day when the recollections of home seemed powerfully present to her. At last, overcome with fatigue, she lay down on the ground, wrapped up in her plaid. I sat beside her, promising to awaken her when, as she said, her "father should return from the ploughing."
She fell at length into a profound slumber, motionless and apparently breathless, her head resting in my lap. I myself could no longer resist the inclination to sleep, in spite of the continual roar of the cannon. Suddenly I was aroused by a wild, unearthly scream close to my ear; my companion stood upright beside me, her arms raised, and her head bent forward in the attitude of listening.
A look of intense delight broke over her countenance. She grasped my hand, drew me toward her, and exclaimed: "Dinna ye hear it? dinna ye hear it? Aye. I'm no dreaming: it's the slogan o' the Highlanders! We're saved! we're saved!" Then, flinging herself on her knees, she thanked God with passionate fervour.
I felt utterly bewildered; my English ears heard only the roar of artillery, and I thought my poor Jessie was still raving, but she darted to the batteries, and I heard her cry incessantly to the men: "Courage! courage! Hark to the slogan—to the Macgregor, the grandest of them a'! Here's help at last!"
To describe the effect of these words upon the soldiers would be impossible. For a moment they ceased firing, and every soul listened with intense anxiety. Gradually, however, there arose a murmur of bitter disappointment, and the wailing of the women, who had flocked to the spot, burst out anew as the colonel shook his head. Our dull Lowland ears heard only the rattle of the musketry.
A few moments more of this deathlike suspense, of this agonizing hope, and Jessie, who had again sunk on the ground, sprang to her feet, and cried in a voice so clear and piercing that it was heard along the whole line: "Will ye no believe it noo? The slogan has ceased, indeed, but the Campbells are comin'! D'ye hear? d'ye hear?"
At that moment all seemed, indeed, to hear the voice of God in the distance, when the pibroch of the Highlanders brought us tidings of deliverance; for now there was no longer any doubt of the fact. That shrill, penetrating, ceaseless sound, which rose above all other sounds, could come neither from the advance of the enemy nor from the work of the sappers. No, it was, indeed, the blast of the Scottish bagpipes, now shrill and harsh, as threatening vengeance on the foe, then in softer tones, seeming to promise succour to their friends in need.
Never, surely, was there such a scene as that which followed. Not a heart in the residency of Lucknow but bowed itself before God. All, by one simultaneous impulse, fell upon their knees, and nothing was heard but bursting sobs and the murmured voice of prayer. Then all arose, and there rang out from a thousand lips a great shout of joy, which resounded far and wide, and lent new vigour to that blessed pibroch.
To our cheer of "God save the Queen," they replied by the well-known strain that moves every Scot to tears, "Should auld acquaintance be forgot." After that, nothing else made any impression on me. I scarcely remember what followed. Jessie was presented to the general on his entrance into the fort, and at the officers' banquet her health was drunk by all present, while the pipers marched around the table, playing once more the familiar air of "Auld Lang Syne."
"Letter from an officer's wife."
"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried,The outer trenches guarding,When the heated guns of the camps alliedGrew weary of bombarding.The dark Redan, in silent scoff,Lay, grim and threatening, under;And the tawny mound of the MalakoffNo longer belched its thunder.There was a pause. A guardsman said:"We storm the forts to-morrow;Sing while we may, another dayWill bring enough of sorrow."They lay along the battery's side,Below the smoking cannon:Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde,And from the banks of Shannon.They sang of love, and not of fame;Forgot was Britain's glory:Each heart recalled a different name,But all sang "Annie Laurie."Voice after voice caught up the song,Until its tender passionRose like an anthem, rich and strong,—Their battle-eve confession.Dear girl, her name he dared not speak,But, as the song grew louder,Something upon the soldier's cheekWashed off the stains of powder.Beyond the darkening ocean burnedThe bloody sunset's embers,While the Crimean valleys learnedHow English love remembers.And once again a fire of hellRained on the Russian quarters,With scream of shot, and burst of shell,And bellowing of the mortars!And Irish Nora's eyes are dimFor a singer, dumb and gory;And English Mary mourns for himWho sang of "Annie Laurie."Sleep, soldiers! still in honoured restYour truth and valour wearing:The bravest are the tenderest,—The loving are the daring.
"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried,The outer trenches guarding,When the heated guns of the camps alliedGrew weary of bombarding.
The dark Redan, in silent scoff,Lay, grim and threatening, under;And the tawny mound of the MalakoffNo longer belched its thunder.
There was a pause. A guardsman said:"We storm the forts to-morrow;Sing while we may, another dayWill bring enough of sorrow."
They lay along the battery's side,Below the smoking cannon:Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde,And from the banks of Shannon.
They sang of love, and not of fame;Forgot was Britain's glory:Each heart recalled a different name,But all sang "Annie Laurie."
Voice after voice caught up the song,Until its tender passionRose like an anthem, rich and strong,—Their battle-eve confession.
Dear girl, her name he dared not speak,But, as the song grew louder,Something upon the soldier's cheekWashed off the stains of powder.
Beyond the darkening ocean burnedThe bloody sunset's embers,While the Crimean valleys learnedHow English love remembers.
And once again a fire of hellRained on the Russian quarters,With scream of shot, and burst of shell,And bellowing of the mortars!
And Irish Nora's eyes are dimFor a singer, dumb and gory;And English Mary mourns for himWho sang of "Annie Laurie."
Sleep, soldiers! still in honoured restYour truth and valour wearing:The bravest are the tenderest,—The loving are the daring.
Bayard Taylor
After the clangour of battleThere comes a moment of rest,And the simple hopes and the simple joysAnd the simple thoughts are best.After the victor's pæan,After the thunder of gun,There comes a lull that must come to allBefore the set of the sun.Then what is the happiest memory?Is it the foe's defeat?Is it the splendid praise of a worldThat thunders by at your feet?Nay, nay, to the life-worn spiritThe happiest thoughts are thoseThat carry us back to the simple joysAnd the sweetness of life's repose.A simple love and a simple trustAnd a simple duty done,Are truer torches to light to deathThan a whole world's victories won.
After the clangour of battleThere comes a moment of rest,And the simple hopes and the simple joysAnd the simple thoughts are best.
After the victor's pæan,After the thunder of gun,There comes a lull that must come to allBefore the set of the sun.
Then what is the happiest memory?Is it the foe's defeat?Is it the splendid praise of a worldThat thunders by at your feet?
Nay, nay, to the life-worn spiritThe happiest thoughts are thoseThat carry us back to the simple joysAnd the sweetness of life's repose.
A simple love and a simple trustAnd a simple duty done,Are truer torches to light to deathThan a whole world's victories won.
Wilfred Campbell
Saladin led the way to a splendid pavilion where was everything that royal luxury could devise. De Vaux, who was in attendance, then removed the long riding-cloak which Richard wore, and he stood before Saladin in the close dress which showed to advantage the strength and symmetry of his person, while it bore a strong contrast to the flowing robes which disguised the thin frame of the Eastern monarch. It was Richard's two-handed sword that chiefly attracted the attention of the Saracen—a broad straight blade, the seemingly unwieldy length of which extended wellnigh from the shoulder to the heel of the wearer.
"Had I not," said Saladin, "seen this brand flaming in the front of battle, like that of Azrael, I had scarce believed that human arm could wield it. Might I request to see the Melech Ric strike one blow with it in peace and in pure trial of strength?"
"Willingly, noble Saladin," answered Richard; and looking around for something whereon to exercise his strength, he saw a steel mace, held by one of the attendants, the handle being of the same metal, and about an inch and a half in diameter. This he placed on a block of wood.
The glittering broadsword, wielded by both his hands, rose aloft to the king's left shoulder, circled round his head, descended with the sway of some terrific engine, and the bar of iron rolled on the ground in two pieces, as a woodman would sever a sapling with a hedging-bill.
"By the head of the Prophet, a most wonderful blow!" said the Soldan, critically and accurately examining the iron bar which had been cut asunder; and the blade of the sword was so well tempered as to exhibit not the least token of having suffered by the feat it had performed. He then took the king's hand, and looking on the size and muscular strength which it exhibited, laughed as he placed it beside his own, so lank and thin, so inferior in brawn and sinew.
"Ay, look well," said De Vaux in English, "it will be long ere your long jackanape's fingers do such a feat with your fine gilded reaping-hook there."
"Silence, De Vaux," said Richard; "by Our Lady, he understands or guesses thy meaning—be not so broad, I pray thee."
The Soldan, indeed, presently said: "Something I would fain attempt, though wherefore should the weak show their inferiority in presence of the strong? Yet, each land hath its own exercises, and this may be new to the Melech Ric." So saying, he took from the floor a cushion of silk and down, and placed it upright on one end. "Can thy weapon, my brother, sever that cushion?" he said to King Richard.
"No, surely," replied the king; "no sword on earth, were it the Excalibur of King Arthur, can cut that which opposes no steady resistance to the blow."
"Mark, then," said Saladin; and tucking up the sleeve of his gown, showed his arm, thin indeed and spare, but which constant exercise had hardened into a mass consisting of nought but bone, brawn, and sinew. He unsheathed his scimitar, a curved and narrow blade, which glittered not like the swords of the Franks, but was, on the contrary, of a dull blue colour, marked with ten millions of meandering lines, which showed how anxiously the metal had been welded by the armourer. Wielding this weapon, apparently so inefficient when compared to that of Richard, the Soldan stood resting his weight upon his left foot, which was slightly advanced; he balanced himself a little as if to steady his aim, then, stepping at once forward, drew the scimitar across the cushion, applying the edge so dexterously and with so little apparent effort, that the cushion seemed rather to fall asunder than to be divided by violence.
"It is a juggler's trick," said De Vaux, darting forward and snatching up the portion of the cushion which had been cut off, as if to assure himself of the reality of the feat; "there is gramarye in this."
The Soldan seemed to comprehend him, for he undid the sort of veil which he had hitherto worn, laid it double along the edge of his sabre, extended the weapon edgeways in the air, and drawing it suddenly through the veil, although it hung on the blade entirely loose, severed that also into two parts, which floated to different sides of the tent, equally displaying the extreme temper and sharpness of the weapon and the exquisite dexterity of him who used it.
"Now, in good faith, my brother," said Richard, "thou art even matchless at the trick of the sword, and right perilous were it to meet thee. Still, however, I put some faith in a downright English blow, and what we cannot do by sleight we eke out by strength. Nevertheless, in truth thou art as expert in inflicting wounds as my sage Hakim in curing them. I trust I shall see the learned leech; I have much to thank him for, and had brought some small present."
As he spoke, Saladin exchanged his turban for a Tartar cap. He had no sooner done so, than De Vaux opened at once his extended mouth and his large round eyes, and Richard gazed with scarce less astonishment, while the Soldan spoke in a grave and altered voice: "The sick man, sayeth the poet, while he is yet infirm, knoweth the physician by his step; but when he is recovered, he knoweth not even his face when he looks upon him."
"A miracle!—a miracle!" exclaimed Richard.
"Of Mahound's working, doubtless," said Thomas de Vaux.
"That I should lose my learned Hakim," said Richard, "merely by absence of his cap and robe, and that I should find him again in my royal brother Saladin!"
"Such is oft the fashion of the world," answered the Soldan: "the tattered robe makes not always the dervish."
Scott: "The Talisman."
Son of the Ocean Isle!Where sleep your mighty dead?Show me what high and stately pileIs reared o'er Glory's bed.Go, stranger! track the deep—Free, free, the white sail spread!Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,Where rest not England's dead.On Egypt's burning plains,By the pyramid o'erswayed,With fearful power the noonday reigns,And the palm trees yield no shade;—But let the angry sunFrom heaven look fiercely red,Unfelt by those whose task is done!—There slumber England's dead.The hurricane hath mightAlong the Indian shore,And far by Ganges' banks at night,Is heard the tiger's roar;—But let the sound roll on!It hath no tone of dreadFor those that from their toils are gone,—There slumber England's dead.Loud rush the torrent-floodsThe Western wilds among,And free, in green Columbia's woods,The hunter's bow is strung;—But let the floods rush on!Let the arrow's flight be sped!Why should they reck whose task is done?—There slumber England's dead.The mountain-storms rise highIn the snowy Pyrenees,And toss the pine-boughs through the skyLike rose-leaves on the breeze;—But let the storm rage on!Let the fresh wreaths be shed!For the Roncesvalles' field is won,—There slumber England's dead.On the frozen deep's repose'Tis a dark and dreadful hour,When round the ship the ice-fields close,And the northern night-clouds lower;—But let the ice drift on!Let the cold-blue desert spread!Their course with mast and flag is done,Even there sleep England's dead.The warlike of the isles,The men of field and wave!Are not the rocks their funeral piles,The seas and shores their grave?Go, stranger! track the deep—Free, free the white sail spread!Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,Where rest not England's dead.
Son of the Ocean Isle!Where sleep your mighty dead?Show me what high and stately pileIs reared o'er Glory's bed.
Go, stranger! track the deep—Free, free, the white sail spread!Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,Where rest not England's dead.
On Egypt's burning plains,By the pyramid o'erswayed,With fearful power the noonday reigns,And the palm trees yield no shade;—
But let the angry sunFrom heaven look fiercely red,Unfelt by those whose task is done!—There slumber England's dead.
The hurricane hath mightAlong the Indian shore,And far by Ganges' banks at night,Is heard the tiger's roar;—
But let the sound roll on!It hath no tone of dreadFor those that from their toils are gone,—There slumber England's dead.
Loud rush the torrent-floodsThe Western wilds among,And free, in green Columbia's woods,The hunter's bow is strung;—
But let the floods rush on!Let the arrow's flight be sped!Why should they reck whose task is done?—There slumber England's dead.
The mountain-storms rise highIn the snowy Pyrenees,And toss the pine-boughs through the skyLike rose-leaves on the breeze;—
But let the storm rage on!Let the fresh wreaths be shed!For the Roncesvalles' field is won,—There slumber England's dead.
On the frozen deep's repose'Tis a dark and dreadful hour,When round the ship the ice-fields close,And the northern night-clouds lower;—
But let the ice drift on!Let the cold-blue desert spread!Their course with mast and flag is done,Even there sleep England's dead.
The warlike of the isles,The men of field and wave!Are not the rocks their funeral piles,The seas and shores their grave?
Go, stranger! track the deep—Free, free the white sail spread!Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,Where rest not England's dead.
Felicia Hemans