BY VICTOR HUGO.
(This is a part of the speech in defense of his son, under the circumstances set forth in the oration.)
Gentlemenof the jury, if there is a culprit here, it is not my son,—it is I!—I, who for these twenty-five years have opposed capital punishment,—have contended for the inviolability of human life,—have committed this crime for which my son is now arraigned. Here I denounce my self, Mr. Advocate-General! I have committed it under all aggravated circumstances; deliberately, repeatedly, tenaciously. Yes, this old and absurdlex taliones—this law of blood for blood—I have combated all my life—all my life, gentlemen of the jury! And, while I have breath, I will continue to combat it, by all my efforts as a writer, by all my words and all my votes as a legislator! I declare it before the crucifix; before that Victim of the penalty of death,who sees and hears us; before that gibbet, in which, two thousand years ago, for the eternal instruction of the generations, the human law nailed the divine!
In all that my son has written on the subject of capital punishment and for writing and publishing which he is now on trial—in all that he has written, he has merely proclaimed the sentiments with which, from his infancy, I have inspired him. Gentlemen jurors, the right to criticise a law, and to criticise it severely—especially a penal law—is placed beside the duty of amelioration, like the torch beside the work under the artisan's hand. The right of the journalist is as sacred, as necessary, as imprescriptible, as the right of the legislator.
What are the circumstances? A man, a convict, a sentenced wretch, is dragged, on a certain morning, to one of our public squares. There he finds the scaffold! He shudders, he struggles, he refuses to die. He is young yet—only twenty-nine. Ah! I know what you will say,—"He is a murderer!" But hear me. Two officers seize him. His hands, his feet are tied. He throws off the two officers. A frightful struggle ensues. His feet, bound as they are, become entangled in the ladder. He uses the scaffold against the scaffold! The struggle is prolonged. Horror seizes the crowd! The officers,—sweat and shame on their brows,—pale, panting, terrified, despairing,—despairing with I know not what horrible despair,—shrinking under that public reprobation which ought to have visited the penalty, and spared the passive treatment, the executioner,—the officers strive savagely. The victim clings to the scaffold and shrieks for pardon. His clothes are torn,—his shoulders bloody,—still he resists. At length, after three-quarters of an hour of this monstrous effort, of this spectacle without a name, of this agony,—agony for all, be it understood,—agony for the assembled spectators as well as for the condemned man,—after this age of anguish, gentlemen of the jury, they take back the poor wretch to his prison.
The People breathe again. The People, naturally merciful, hope that the man will be spared. But no,—the guillotine, though vanquished, remains standing. There it frowns all day, in the midst of a sickened population. And at night the officers, re-enforced, drag forth the wretch again, so bound that he is but an inert weight,—they drag him forth, haggard, bloody, weeping, pleading, howling for life,—calling upon God, calling upon his father and mother,—for like avery child had this man become in the prospect of death,—they drag him forth to execution. He is hoisted on the scaffold and his head falls! And then through every conscience runs a shudder. Never had legal murder appeared with an aspect so indecent, so abominable. All feel jointly implicated in the deed. It is at this very moment that from a young man's breast escapes a cry, wrung from his very heart,—a cry of pity and anguish,—a cry of horror,—a cry of humanity. And this cry you would punish! And in the face of the appalling facts which I have narrated, you would say to the guillotine, "Thou art right!" and to Pity, saintly Pity, "Thou art wrong!" Gentlemen of the jury, it cannot be! Gentlemen, I have finished.
BY MAXIMILIAN MARIE ISIDORE DE ROBESPIERRE.
[Before his execution, Robespierre addressed the populace of Paris in part as follows:]
Theenemies of the Republic call me tyrant! Were I such, they would grovel at my feet. I should gorge them with gold, I should grant them immunity for their crimes, and they would be grateful. Were I such, the kings we have vanquished, far from denouncing Robespierre, would lend me their guilty support; there would be a covenant between them and me. Tyranny must have tools. But the enemies of tyranny,—whither does their path tend? To the tomb, and to immortality! What tyrant is my protector? To what faction do I belong? Yourselves! What faction since the beginning of the Revolution, has crushed and annihilated so many detected traitors? You, the people, our principles, are that faction—a faction to which I am devoted, and against which all the scoundrelism of the day is banded!
The confirmation of the Republic has been my object; and Iknow that the Republic can be established only on the eternal basis of morality. Against me, and against those who hold kindred principles, the league is formed. My life? Oh! my life I abandon without a regret. I have seen the past; and I foresee the future. What friend of this country would wish to survive the moment when he could no longer serve it,—when he could no longer defend innocence against oppression? Wherefore should I continue in an order of things where intrigue eternally triumphs over truth; where justice is mocked; where passions the most abject, or fears the most absurd, over-ride the sacred interests of humanity? In witnessing the multitude of vices which the torrent of the Revolution has rolled in turbid communion with its civic virtues, I confess that I have sometimes feared that I should be sullied, in the eyes of posterity, by the impure neighborhood of unprincipled men, who had thrust themselves into association with the sincere friends of humanity; and I rejoice that these conspirators against my country have now, by their reckless rage, traced deep the line of demarcation between themselves and all true men.
Question history, and learn how all the defenders of liberty, in all times, have been overwhelmed by calumny. But their traducers died also. The good and the bad disappear alike from the earth; but in very different conditions. O Frenchmen! O my countrymen! Let not your enemies, with their desolating doctrines, degrade your souls and enervate your virtues! No, Chaumette, no! Death is not "an eternal sleep"! Citizens, efface from the tomb that motto, graven by sacrilegious hands, which spreads over all nature a funereal crape, takes from suppressed innocence its support, and affronts the beneficent dispensation of death! Inscribe rather thereon these words: "Death is the commencement of immortality!" I leave to the oppressors of the People a terrible testament, which I proclaim with the independence befitting one whose career is so nearly ended; it is the awful truth,—"Thou shalt die!"
BY ALEXANDER H. STEPHENS.
[Delivered at the Georgia State Convention, January, 1861.]
Mr. President: This step of secession, once taken, can never be recalled, and all the baleful and withering consequences that must follow will rest on the convention for all coming time. When we and our posterity shall see our lovely South desolated by the demon of war, which this act of yours will inevitably invite and call forth; when our green fields of waving harvest shall be trodden down by the murderous soldiery and fiery car sweeping over our land; our temples of justice laid in ashes; all the horrors and desolation of war upon us; who but this convention will be held responsible for it? And who but him who shall have given his vote for this unwise and ill-timed measure, as I honestly think and believe, shall be held to strict account for this suicidal act by the present generation, and probably cursed and execrated by posterity for all coming time, for the wide and desolating ruin that will inevitably follow this act you now propose to perpetrate? Pause, I entreat you, and consider for a moment what reasons you can give that will even satisfy yourselves in calmer moments—what reasons you can give to your fellow-sufferers in the calamity that it will bring upon us. What reasons can you give to the nations of the earth to justify it? They will be calm and deliberate judges in the case; and what cause or one overt act can you name or point, on which to rest the plea of justification? What right has the North assailed? What interest of the South has been invaded? What justice has been denied? And what claim founded in justice and right has been withheld? Can either of you to-day name one governmental act of wrong, deliberately and purposely done by the government of Washington, of which the South has a right to complain? I challenge the answer. While, on the other hand, let me show the facts (and believe me, gentlemen, I am not here, the advocate of the North; but I am here the friend, the firm friend, and loverof the South and her institutions, and for this reason I speak thus plainly and faithfully, for yours, mine, and every other man's interest, the words of truth and soberness), of which I wish you to judge, and I will only state facts which are clear and undeniable, and which now stand as records authentic in the history of our country. When we of the South demanded the slave-trade, or the importation of Africans for the cultivation of our lands, did they not yield the right for twenty years? When we asked a three-fifths representation in Congress for our slaves, was it not granted? When we asked and demanded the return of any fugitive from justice, or the recovery of those persons owing labor or allegiance, was it not incorporated in the Constitution, and again ratified and strengthened by the Fugitive Slave Law of 1850? But do you reply that in many instances they have violated this compact and have not been faithful to their engagements? As individuals and local communities they may have done so; but not by the sanction of government; for that has always been true to Southern interests. Again, gentlemen, look at another act; when we have asked that more territory should be added, that we might spread the institution of slavery, have they not yielded to our demands in giving us Louisiana, Florida and Texas, out of which four States have been carved, and ample territory for four more to be added in due time, if you, by this unwise and impolitic act, do not destroy this hope, and perhaps by it lose all, and have your last slave wrenched from you by stern military rule, as South American and Mexican were; or by the vindictive decree of a universal emancipation which may reasonably be expected to follow.
But, again, gentlemen, what have we to gain by this proposed change of our relation to the general government? We have always had the control of it, and can yet, if we remain in it, and are as united as we have been. We have had a majority of the Presidents chosen from the South, as well as the control and management of most of those chosen from the North. We have had sixty years of Southern Presidents to their twenty-four, thus controlling the executive department. So, of the judges of the Supreme Court, we have had eighteen from the South and but eleven from the North, although nearly four-fifths of the judicial business has arisen in the free States, yet a majority of the court has always been from the South. This we have acquired so as to guardagainst any interpretation of the Constitution unfavorable to us. In like manner we have been equally watchful to guard our interests in the legislative branch of government. In choosing the presiding presidents (pro tem.) of the Senate, we have had twenty-four to their eleven. Speakers of the House we have had twenty-three, and they twelve. While the majority of the representatives, from their greater population, have always been from the North, yet we have so generally secured the Speaker, because he, to a great extent, shapes and controls the legislation of the country. Nor have we had less control in every other department of the general government. Attorney-generals we have had fourteen, while the North have had but five. Foreign ministers we have had eighty-six, and they but fifty-four. While three-fourths of the business which demands diplomatic agents abroad is clearly from the free States, from their greater commercial interest, yet we have had the principal embassies, so as to secure the world-markets for our cotton, tobacco and sugar on the best possible terms. We have had a vast majority of the higher offices of both army and navy, while a larger proportion of the soldiers and sailors were drawn from the North. Equally so of clerks, auditors and comptrollers filling the executive department; the records show, for the last fifty years, that of the three thousand thus employed, we have had more than two-thirds of the same, while we have but one-third of the white population of the Republic.
Again, look at another item, and one, be assured, in which we have a great and vital interest; it is that of revenue, or means of supporting government. From official documents we learn that a fraction over three-fourths of the revenue collected for the support of the government has uniformly been raised from the North.
Pause now while you can, gentlemen, and contemplate carefully and candidly these important items. Look at another necessary branch of government, and learn from stern statistical facts how matters stand in that department. I mean the mail and post-office privileges that we now enjoy under the general government as it has been for years past. The expense for the transportation of the mail in the free States was, by the report of the Postmaster-General for the year 1860, a little over $13,000,000, while the income was $19,000,000. But in the slave States the transportation of the mail was $14,716,000, while the revenue from the same was$8,001,026, leaving a deficit of $6,704,974 to be supplied by the North for our accommodation, and without it we must have been entirely cut off from this most essential branch of government.
Leaving out of view, for the present, the countless millions of dollars you must expend in a war with the North; with tens of thousands of your sons and brothers slain in battle and offered up as sacrifices upon the altar of your ambition—and for what, we ask again? Is it for the overthrow of the American Government, established by our common ancestry, cemented and built up by their sweat and blood, and founded on the broad principles of right, justice and humanity? And as such, I must declare here, as I have often done before, and which has been repeated by the greatest and wisest of statesmen and patriots, in this and other lands, that it is the best and freest government—the most equal in its rights, the most just in its decisions, the most lenient in its measures, and the most aspiring in its principles, to elevate the race of men, that the sun of heaven ever shone upon. Now, for you to attempt to overthrow such a government as this, under which we have lived for more than three-quarters of a century—in which we have gained our wealth, our standing as a nation, our domestic safety, while the elements of peril are around us, with peace and tranquillity accompanied with unbounded prosperity and rights unassailed—is the height of madness, folly, and wickedness, to which I neither lend my sanction nor my vote.
Birds are singing round my window,Tunes the sweetest ever heard,And I hang my cage there daily,But I never catch a bird.So with thoughts my brain is peopled,And they sing there all day long;But they will not fold their pinionsIn the little cage of song!—Richard Henry Stoddard.
Birds are singing round my window,Tunes the sweetest ever heard,And I hang my cage there daily,But I never catch a bird.So with thoughts my brain is peopled,And they sing there all day long;But they will not fold their pinionsIn the little cage of song!—Richard Henry Stoddard.
Birds are singing round my window,Tunes the sweetest ever heard,And I hang my cage there daily,But I never catch a bird.So with thoughts my brain is peopled,And they sing there all day long;But they will not fold their pinionsIn the little cage of song!
—Richard Henry Stoddard.
BY CHARLES KINGSLEY.
["Hypatia was a mathematician of Alexandria, who taught her students the philosophy of Plato. Orestes, governor of Alexandria, admired the talents of Hypatia, and frequently had recourse to her for advice. He was desirous of curbing the too ardent zeal of St. Cyril, who saw in Hypatia one of the principal supports of paganism. The most fanatical followers of the bishop, in March, A.D. 415, seized upon Hypatia as she was proceeding to her school, forced her to descend from her chariot, and dragged her into a neighboring church, where she was put to death by her brutal foes. Canon Kingsley's historical romance has done much to make her name familiar to English readers" (Classical Dictionary). Raphael Aben-Ezra, a former pupil, converted to Christianity and returning to Alexandria, seeks audience with Hypatia to tell her of the Nazarene. Broken and discouraged, she still holds to her philosophy, but finally consents to hear what Raphael has to say of Christianity. It is almost time for her to lecture at the school, so she makes an appointment for Raphael the following day. She sends him from her until then with the words with which this cutting begins.]
["Hypatia was a mathematician of Alexandria, who taught her students the philosophy of Plato. Orestes, governor of Alexandria, admired the talents of Hypatia, and frequently had recourse to her for advice. He was desirous of curbing the too ardent zeal of St. Cyril, who saw in Hypatia one of the principal supports of paganism. The most fanatical followers of the bishop, in March, A.D. 415, seized upon Hypatia as she was proceeding to her school, forced her to descend from her chariot, and dragged her into a neighboring church, where she was put to death by her brutal foes. Canon Kingsley's historical romance has done much to make her name familiar to English readers" (Classical Dictionary). Raphael Aben-Ezra, a former pupil, converted to Christianity and returning to Alexandria, seeks audience with Hypatia to tell her of the Nazarene. Broken and discouraged, she still holds to her philosophy, but finally consents to hear what Raphael has to say of Christianity. It is almost time for her to lecture at the school, so she makes an appointment for Raphael the following day. She sends him from her until then with the words with which this cutting begins.]
"Yes, come.... The Galilean.... If he conquers strong men, can the weak maid resist him? Come soon ... this afternoon.... My heart is breaking fast."
"At the eighth hour this afternoon?" asked Raphael.
"Yes.... At noon I lecture ... take my farewell, rather, forever, of the schools.... Gods! What have I to say?... And tell me about Him of Nazareth. Farewell!"
"Farewell, beloved lady! At the ninth hour you shall hear of Him of Nazareth."
As Raphael went down the steps into the street, a young man sprang from behind one of the pillars and seized his arm.
"Aha! my young Coryphæus of pious plunderers! What do you want with me?"
Philammon, for it was he, looked at him an instant, and recognized him.
"Save her! for the love of God, save her!"
"Whom?"
"Hypatia!"
"How long has her salvation been important to you, my good friend?"
"For God's sake," said Philammon, "go back and warn her! She will hear you—you are rich—you used to be her friend—I know you—I have heard of you.... Oh, if you ever cared for her—if you ever felt for her a thousandth part of what I feel—go in and warn her not to stir from home!"
"Of what is she to be warned?"
"Of a plot—I know that there is a plot—against her among the monks and parabolani. As I lay in bed this morning in Arsenius' room they thought I was asleep—"
"Arsenius? Has that venerable fanatic, then, gone the way of all monastic flesh, and turned persecutor?"
"God forbid! I heard him beseeching Peter, the reader, to refrain from something, I cannot tell what; but I caught her name.... I heard Peter say, 'She that hindereth will hinder till she be taken out of the way.' And when he went out in the passage I heard him say to another, 'That thou doest, do quickly!'"
"These are slender grounds, my friend."
"Ah, you do not know of what these men are capable."
"Do I not?"
"I know the hatred which they bear her, the crimes which they attribute to her. Her house would have been attacked last night had it not been for Cyril.... And I knew Peter's tone. He spoke too gently and softly not to mean something devilish. I watched all the morning for an opportunity of escape, and here I am! Will you take my message, or see her—"
"What?"
"God only knows, and the devil whom they worship instead of God."
Raphael hurried back into the house. "Could he see Hypatia?" She had shut herself up in her private room, strictly commanding that no visitor should be admitted.... "Where was Theon, then?" He had gone out by the canal gate half an hour before, and he hastily wrote on his tablet:
"Do not despise the young monk's warning. I believe him to speak the truth. As you love yourself and your father, Hypatia, stir not out to-day."
He bribed the maid to take the message up-stairs; and passed his time in the hall in warning the servants. But they would not believe him. It was true the shops were shut in some quarters, and the Museum gardens empty; people were a little frightened after yesterday. But Cyril, they had heard for certain, had threatened excommunication only last night to any Christian who broke the peace; and there had not been a monk to be seen in the streets the whole morning. And as for any harm happening to their mistress—impossible! "The very wild beasts would not tear her," said the huge negro porter, "if she were thrown into the amphitheater."
Whereat the maid boxed his ears for talking of such a thing: and then, by way of mending it, declared that she knew for certain that her mistress could turn aside the lightning and call legions of spirits to fight for her with a nod.... What was to be done with such idolaters. And yet who could help liking them the better for it?
At last the answer came down, in the old, graceful, studied, self-conscious handwriting:
"I dread nothing. They will not dare. Did they dare now, they would have dared long ago. As for that youth—to obey or to believe his word, even to seem aware of his existence, were shame to me henceforth. Because he is insolent enough to warn me, therefore I will go. Fear not for me. You would not wish me, for the first time in my life, to fear for myself. I must follow my destiny. I must speak the words which I have to speak. Above all, I must let no Christian say that the philosopher dared less than the fanatic. If my gods are gods, then will they protect me; and if not, let your God prove His rule as seems to Him good."
Raphael tore the letter to fragments.... The guards, at least, were not gone mad like the rest of the world. It wanted half an hour of the time for her lecture. In the interval he might summon force enough to crush all Alexandria.And turning suddenly, he darted out of the room and out of the house.
"Stay here and stop her! Make a last appeal," cried he to Philammon, with a gesture of grief. "Drag the horses' heads down, if you can! I will be back in ten minutes." And he ran off for the nearest gate of the Museum gardens.
On the other side of the gardens lay the courtyard of the palace. There were gates in plenty communicating between them. If he could but see Orestes, even alarm the guard in time!...
And he hurried through the walks and alcoves, now deserted by the fearful citizens, to the nearest gate. It was fast and barricaded firmly on the outside.
Terrified, he ran on to the next; it was barred also. He saw the reason in a moment, and maddened as he saw it. The guards, careless about the Museum, or reasonably fearing no danger from the Alexandrian populace to the glory and wonder of their city, or perhaps wishing wisely enough to concentrate their forces in the narrowest space, had contented themselves with cutting off all communication with the gardens. At all events, the doors leading from the Museum itself might be open. He knew them, every one. He found an entrance, hurried through well-known corridors to a postern through which he and Orestes had lounged a hundred times. It was fast. He beat upon it; but no one answered. He rushed on and tried another. No one answered there. Another—still silence and despair!... He rushed up-stairs, hoping that from a window above he might be able to call the guard. The prudent soldiers had locked and barricaded the entrances to the upper floors of the whole right wing, lest the palace court should be commanded from thence. Whither now? Back—and whither then? And his breath failed him, his throat was parched, his face burned as with the simoon wind, his legs were trembling under him. His presence of mind, usually so perfect, failed him utterly. He was baffled, netted. His brain, for the first time in his life, began to reel. He could recollect nothing but that something dreadful was to happen—and that he had to prevent it, and could not.... Where was he now? In a little by-chamber. What was that roar below?... A sea of weltering heads, thousands on thousands down into the very beach; and from their innumerable throats one mighty war-cry—"God, and the Mother of God!" Cyril's hounds were loose....He reeled from the window, and darted frantically away again ... whither, he knew not, and never knew until his dying day.
Philammon saw Raphael rush across the streets into the Museum gardens. His last words had been a command to stay where he was, and the boy obeyed him, quietly ensconced himself behind a buttress, and sat coiled up on the pavement ready for a desperate spring.
There Philammmon waited a full half-hour. It seemed to him hours, day, years. And yet Raphael did not return; and yet no guards appeared.
What meant that black knot of men some two hundred yards off, hanging about the mouth of the side street, just opposite the door which led to her lecture-room? He moved to watch them; they had vanished. He lay down again and waited.... There they were again. It was a suspicious post. That street ran along the back of the Cæsareum, a favorite haunt of monks, communicating by innumerable entries and back buildings with the great church itself.... He knew that something terrible was at hand. More than once he looked out from his hiding place—the knot of men were still there; ... it seemed to have increased, to draw nearer. If they found him, what would they not suspect? What did he care? He would die for her if it came to that—not that it would come to that; but still he must speak to her—he must warn her.
At last, a curricle, glittering with silver, rattled round the corner and stopped opposite him. She must be coming now. The crowd had vanished. Perhaps it was, after all, a fancy of his own. No; there they were, peeping round the corner, close to the lecture-room—the hell-hounds! A slave brought out an embroidered cushion, and then Hypatia herself came forth, looking more glorious than ever; her lips set in a sad, firm smile; her eyes uplifted, inquiring, eager, and yet gentle, dimmed by some great inward awe, as if her soul were far away aloft, and face to face with God.
In a moment he sprang up to her, caught her robe convulsively, threw himself on his knees before her.
"Stop! Stay! You are going to destruction!"
Calmly she looked down upon him.
"Accomplice of witches! Would you make of Theon's daughter a traitor like yourself?"
He sprang up, stepped back, and stood stupefied with shame and despair....
She believed him guilty then!... It was the will of God!
The plumes of the horses were waving far down the street before he recovered himself, and rushed after her, shouting he knew not what.
It was too late! A dark wave of men rushed from the ambuscade, surged up round the car, ... swept forward.... She had disappeared, and, as Philammon followed breathless, the horses galloped past him madly homeward with the empty carriage.
Whither were they dragging her? To the Cæsareum, the church of God Himself? Impossible! Why thither of all places of the earth? Why did the mob, increasing momentarily by hundreds, pour down upon the beach, and return brandishing flints, shells, fragments of pottery?
She was upon the church steps before he caught them up, invisible among the crowd; but he could track her by the fragments of her dress.
Where were her gay pupils now? Alas! they had barricaded themselves shamefully in the Museum at the first rush which swept her from the door of the lecture-room. Cowards! He would save her.
And he struggled in vain to pierce the dense mass of parabolani and monks, who, mingled with the fish-wives and dock workers, leaped and yelled around their victim. But what he could not do another and a weaker did—even the little porter. Furiously—no one knew how or whence—he burst up, as if from the ground in the thickest of the crowd, with knife, teeth and nails, like a venomous wild-cat, tearing his way toward his idol. Alas! he was torn down himself, rolled over the steps, and lay there half dead in an agony of weeping, as Philammon sprang up past him into the church.
Yes! On into the church itself! Into the cool, dim shadow, with its fretted pillars, and lowering domes, and candles, and incense, and blazing altar, and great pictures looking down from the walls athwart the gorgeous gloom. And right in front, above the altar, the colossal Christ, watching unmoved from off the wall, his right hand raised to give a blessing—or a curse!
On, up the nave, fresh shreds of her dress strewing the holypavement—up the chancel steps themselves—up to the altar—right underneath the great, still Christ; and there even those hell-hounds paused....
She shook herself free from her tormentors, and, springing back, rose for one moment to her full height, naked, snow-white against the dusky mass around—shame and indignation in those wide, clear eyes, but not a stain of fear. With one hand she clasped her golden locks around her, the other long, white arm was stretched upward toward the great, still Christ, appealing—and who dare say, in vain?—from man to God. Her lips were opened to speak; but the words that should have come from them reached God's ear alone; for in an instant Peter struck her down, the dark mass closed over her again, ... and then wail on wail, long, wild, ear-piercing, rang along the vaulted roofs, and thrilled like the trumpet of avenging angels through Philammon's ears.
Crushed against a pillar, unable to move in the dense mass, he pressed his hands over his ears. He could not shut out those shrieks! When would they end? What in the name of the God of mercy were they doing? Tearing her piecemeal? Yes, and worse than that. And still the shrieks rang on, and still the great Christ looked down on Philammon with that calm, intolerable eye, and would not turn away. And over his head was written in the rainbow, "I am the same, yesterday, to-day, and forever!" The same as he was in Judæa of old, Philammon? Then what are these, and in whose temple? And he covered his face with his hands and longed to die.
It was over. The shrieks had died away into moans; the moans to silence.
Death stands above me, whispering lowI know not what into my ear;Of this strange language all I knowIs, there is not a word of fear.—Walter Savage Landor.
Death stands above me, whispering lowI know not what into my ear;Of this strange language all I knowIs, there is not a word of fear.—Walter Savage Landor.
Death stands above me, whispering lowI know not what into my ear;Of this strange language all I knowIs, there is not a word of fear.
—Walter Savage Landor.
BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
(Arranged by Maude Herndon.)
[The scene from Ivanhoe is of the description of the grand tournament, held by Prince John Lockland, at Ashby, in which Robin Hood, under the disguise of Locksley, wins the prize for his skill in archery.]
[The scene from Ivanhoe is of the description of the grand tournament, held by Prince John Lockland, at Ashby, in which Robin Hood, under the disguise of Locksley, wins the prize for his skill in archery.]
Thesound of the trumpets soon recalled those spectators who had already begun to leave the field; and proclamation was made that Prince John, suddenly called by high and peremptory public duties, held himself obliged to discontinue the entertainments of the morrow's festival. Nevertheless, that, unwilling so many good yeomen should depart without a trial of skill, he was pleased to appoint them, before leaving the ground, to execute the competition of archery intended for the morrow. To the best archer a prize was to be awarded, being a bugle-horn, mounted with silver, and a silken baldric richly ornamented with a medallion of St. Hubert, the patron of sylvan sport.
More than thirty yeomen at first presented themselves as competitors, but when the archers understood with whom they were to be matched, upwards to twenty withdrew themselves from the contest, unwilling to encounter the dishonor of almost certain defeat.
The diminished list of competitors for sylvan fame still amounted to eight. Prince John stepped from his royal seat to view the persons of these chosen yeomen. He looked for the object of his resentment, whom he observed standing on the same spot, and with the same composed countenance which he had exhibited upon the preceding day.
"Fellow," said Prince John, "I guessed by thy insolent babble thou wert no true lover of the long-bow, and I see thou darest not adventure thy skill among such merry-men as stand yonder."
"Under favor, sir," replied the yeomen, "I have another reason for refraining to shoot, besides the fearing discomfiture and disgrace."
"And what is thy other reason?" said Prince John.
"Because I know not if these yeomen and I are used to shoot at the same marks; and because, moreover, I know not how your Grace might relish the winning of a third prize by one who has unwillingly fallen under your displeasure."
"What is thy name, yeoman?"
"Locksley," answered the yeoman.
"Then Locksley," said Prince John, "thou shalt shoot in thy turn, when these yeomen have displayed their skill. If thou carriest the prize, I will add to it twenty nobles; but if thou losest it, thou shalt be stript of thy Lincoln green, and scourged out of the lists with bowstrings, for a wordy and insolent braggart, and if thou refusest my fair proffer, the Provost of the lists shall cut thy bowstring, break thy bow and arrows, and expel thee from the presence as a faint-hearted craven."
"This is no fair chance you put on me, proud Prince, to compel me to peril myself against the best archers of Leicester and Staffordshire, under the penalty of infamy if they should overshoot me. Nevertheless, I will obey your pleasure."
A target was placed at the upper end of the southern avenue which led to the lists. The contending archers took their station in turn, at the bottom of the southern access; the distance between that station and the mark allowing full distance for what was called a shot at rovers. The archers, having previously determined by lot their order of precedence, were to shoot each three shafts in succession.
One by one the archers, stepping forward, delivered their shafts yeomanlike and bravely. Of twenty-four arrows, shot in succession, ten were fixed in the target, and the others ranged so near it, that, considering the distance of the mark, it was accounted good archery. Of the ten shafts which hit the target, two within the inner ring were shot by Hubert.
"Now, Locksley," said Prince John, "wilt thou try conclusions with Hubert, or wilt thou yield up bow, baldric, and quiver, to the Provost of the sports?"
"Sith it be no better, 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 propose."
"That is but fair," answered Prince John, "and it shall not be refused thee. If thou beat this braggart, Hubert, I will fill the bugle with silver pennies for thee."
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, or that had been a better shot."
So saying, Locksley stept 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 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, "and thou suffer that runagate knave to overcome thee, thou art worthy of the gallows!"
"Shoot, knave, and shoot thy best, or it shall be the worse for thee!"
Thus exhorted, Hubert resumed his place, and not neglecting the caution which he had received from his adversary, he made the necessary allowance for a very light air of wind, which had just arisen, and shot so successfully that his arrow alighted in the very centre of the target.
"A Hubert! a Hubert!" shouted the populace, more interested in a known person than in a stranger.
"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. "This must be the devil, and no man of flesh and blood," whispered the yeomen to each other; "such archery was never seen since a bow was first bent in Britain."
"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 to win a smile from the bonny lass he loves best."
He then turned to leave the lists, but 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 with great composure, observing at the same time that to ask a good woodsman to shoot at a target so broad as had hitherto been used, was to put shame upon his skill. "A child of seven years old 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 five-score yards, I call him an archer fit to bear both bow and quiver before a king, and it were the stout King Richard himself."
"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. I might as well shoot at the edge of our parson's whittle, or at a wheat straw, or 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, 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 neverdid 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.
BY LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.
I see the smiling New Year climb the heights—The clouds, his heralds, turn the sky to rose,And flush the whiteness of the winter snows,Till Earth is glad with Life and Life's delight.The weary Old Year died when died the night,And this newcomer, proud with triumph, showsHis radiant face, and each glad subject knowsThe welcome monarch, born to rule aright.Yet there are graves far off that no man tends,Where lie the vanished loves and hopes and fears,The dreams that grew to be our hearts' best friends,The smiles, and, dearer than the smiles, the tears—These were that Old Year's gifts, whom none defends,Now his strong Conqueror, the New, appears.
I see the smiling New Year climb the heights—The clouds, his heralds, turn the sky to rose,And flush the whiteness of the winter snows,Till Earth is glad with Life and Life's delight.The weary Old Year died when died the night,And this newcomer, proud with triumph, showsHis radiant face, and each glad subject knowsThe welcome monarch, born to rule aright.Yet there are graves far off that no man tends,Where lie the vanished loves and hopes and fears,The dreams that grew to be our hearts' best friends,The smiles, and, dearer than the smiles, the tears—These were that Old Year's gifts, whom none defends,Now his strong Conqueror, the New, appears.
I see the smiling New Year climb the heights—The clouds, his heralds, turn the sky to rose,And flush the whiteness of the winter snows,Till Earth is glad with Life and Life's delight.The weary Old Year died when died the night,And this newcomer, proud with triumph, showsHis radiant face, and each glad subject knowsThe welcome monarch, born to rule aright.
Yet there are graves far off that no man tends,Where lie the vanished loves and hopes and fears,The dreams that grew to be our hearts' best friends,The smiles, and, dearer than the smiles, the tears—These were that Old Year's gifts, whom none defends,Now his strong Conqueror, the New, appears.